


Sibylline

by heroictype (swanreaper)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Carlos and Cecil are Dorks, Cecil is Described, Cecil is Slightly Psychic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Melodrama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2019-08-21 21:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16584782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swanreaper/pseuds/heroictype
Summary: The Voice of Night Vale faces opposition to legalizing the existence of angels. A routine arrest goes awry. A town shows its seams.Year 5 AU in which the City Council and Station Management aren't dating, which means Cecil can't avoid being reeducated following the events of episode 104.Warnings include: bugs, blood/gore, non-consensual drug use, unreality, police activity, cult things, body horror. For the most part, these are canon-typical/things that canon implies.





	1. A Wire Loose

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and welcome to "Weird Cecil Headcanons? In my 2018? It's more likely than you think." But like, as a fanfiction. A more melodramatic, but hopefully interesting, take on Year 5.
> 
> The listed warnings certainly aren't happening all at once, and I'll add specifics to each chapter. The big ones this time around are: unreality, body horror, and police activity. 
> 
> I have about 12 chapters of this done, or comfortably close, so I figured I'd get started on posting. Famous last words. But in any case, I anticipate posting about once a week, which gives me like... Three months, during which I'll be working on it more, anyway. Thanks for reading!

_ "And as always, good night, Night Vale. Josie was beautiful and angels are real! Good night." _

Cecil signed off, and sat tapping his fingers on his desk. The roguish energy which had carried him through much of his broadcast had no other outlet now. It was exciting, really, to speak in defiance. It was a thrill, electric and uplifting. This did not make it an enjoyable experience.    


He stretched, and doubled checked that all of the equipment was off. Gathered up the papers on his desk. Tapped them into a neat stack. Texted Carlos, "sorry hunbun i won't be home for dinner tonight."

He stepped out of his studio, into a waiting cluster of Secret Police officers. 

He smiled at them, and said, "Hello, officers. What can I do for you this evening?"

One of them, a leader, although perhaps not  _ the _ leader - their names and ranks were classified information, and so indistinguishable even amongst each other - said, "Cecil Palmer, you are under arrest for acknowledging the existence of angels, which do not exist, and their hierarchy, which is privileged information." 

He accepted this with the professionalism expected of a respected journalist. He had, after all, broken the law. Consequences were only natural. The arresting officers escorted him from the building. No other station staff saw them go. Everyone had better things to see. As they walked past the front desk, Lance was busy turning the answering machine off and on. 

The officers were quite accommodating, even providing transportation. They brought Cecil to City Hall. They stopped ten feet away from the Council Chamber, and prodded him toward the doors. 

"I'm going," he said, although he was not yet going. He repeated, possibly to them, "I'm going. Relax."

He went in alone. He kept his gaze carefully on the carpet. There was movement in front of him, which he understood through the groan of tortured wood, skittering, several  _ glops _ . 

The City Council spoke, "There you are. Let's make this quick; we have other business to attend to, you know."

"Don't worry. I'm sure you'll be in time for your flight." 

They hissed. Some throats hissed. Others gurgled, and none of the sounds should have been speech. "You just don't know when to keep your mouth shut, do you?"

"Oh, but I do."

Something like laughter. Like laughter. Cecil tasted bile, and the Council said, "Oh, good, we are glad to hear it. Use that knowledge wisely."

"I have been. But there is much that should be said. I will say it." 

"No, you will not. We will not abide this. You may be the voice of this town, but… Well, that. You represent the interests of this town. You can't just say whatever you want, and you will not go on telling dangerous lies to innocent citizens." 

"It's the truth." He folded his arms over his chest, although with his head bent, it looked more like a defensive gesture than a defiant one. "I am telling the truth."

The Council roared, and the roaring echoed, and so the entire world was volume, "Not on the air, you're not!"

"I am only telling them-" 

There was an awful, wet slithering just in front of him, and he saw the undulating shadows of their body crossing the floor, closing in. He stopped breathing, and shut his eyes.

They went on, "In fact, you will not be allowed on the air again until you have completed an intensive reeducation program. Your mind must be scrubbed of these traitorous… ideas about angels." 

"Right, of course, but." He pinched his own arm and held it, just long enough to let one, physical sensation overcome his body's awareness of its surroundings. "But also, what if that didn't happen, and instead, you go attend to your other business, and while you are doing that… Well, you can just take it easy, right? Things will be fine here. I will keep everyone informed of what they need to know, and no more."

"And no more," the Council echoed. "Tell us, Cecil. Tell us what  _ you _ consider to be 'no more' than what people should know. In your opinion, what does that mean?"

"I have said what I mean." 

"That's what we thought. You have said it already, and you were wrong." 

"Maybe. I have been wrong about many things-"

"Obviously, you are ready and willing to learn, aren't you? Obviously, you are a citizen in good standing. Obviously."

"...I have been wrong about many things, but Josie was right." He fought an urge to look up. An inexplicable urge for eye contact, which he normally preferred to avoid, and which would now be deadly, anyway.  


"I see. Well, then. You have heard our decision, and it is generous, all things considered. Now, we have other business to attend to. Get. Out."

"If you would just listen to-"

" _ Get out! _ "

Cecil turned and ran. Outside, the Secret Police were waiting for him again. He did not make it home for dinner that night. He did not make it home that night at all.

* * *

But the night after, Carlos met Cecil at their door. Carlos exclaimed, "Oh, Ceec!"

Carlos hugged Cecil before he had a chance to close the door behind him. Then he forgot about it. He did not have a free hand, anyway. He was preoccupied with texture; the crisp fabric of Carlos' lab coat and the gloss of his hair. The house smelled like boiling pasta, and the scientist smelled like laundry detergent and formaldehyde. 

"Hi, honey!" said Carlos. It sounded like he was restraining himself, holding back from expressing his delight completely, but it was the opposite. His delight would not fit completely in his voice, restrained by the limits of mere vibration. "I missed you. How are you feeling?" 

"Oh. Fine," Cecil's hands went still against his husband. He said, "I'm sorry it was so sudden. Um. Let me tell you now, I have to go back tomorrow."

"Oh. Mmm, okay. Well," Carlos said. He stepped away, but only enough so that he could stretch up to kiss his husband. "I was just making dinner. I didn't know when you would be back, but I made enough for two, just to be safe."

Cecil kissed Carlos again before answering. "Thank you, Carlos. That sounds… amazing. You are amazing, and I love you."

Carlos rocked up onto his toes, and took Cecil's hand when he set down. "You, too, though! This applies to both sentiments: you are also amazing, and I love you, too." 

They went to the kitchen holding hands, but Carlos left him at the threshold, hurrying to check on the food. Cecil took a more leisurely approach, dropping his purse into a chair.

"I really enjoyed your show yesterday. Just so you know." Carlos was peering intently into the pot, but he glanced back at his husband, and smiled. His gaze landed on the table. The smile dropped.

"Oh, but, um, there's some mail for you there. It's from the Secret Police. It doesn't say that, but it was slipped under the door after I came home today. It has your name on it in magazine clippings and it wasn't sealed properly, so it had… I think it is a clipping of your hair that fell out as a kind of 'you can't stop us from getting to you' message, which is super creepy but not for the reason they wanted it to be." 

"Did you? Well, thanks. I'm glad  _ someone _ approves." Cecil picked the letter up, and turned it over in his hands. He teased the edge of it, but instead of unfolding it, he put it back and joined Carlos at the stove. Cecil had priorities. He kissed Carlos on the cheek, and leaned forward with one arm lightly hooked around his husband's waist. "Thanks for grabbing that, dear. Mmm, that smells great!"

Carlos allowed the subject to change. "Thank you. I skinned it myself."

"Ooh, I can hardly wait!"

Carlos nodded, and turned his head; Cecil took the invitation and kissed his husband. 

Alright. Enough putting it off. He returned to the table and slipped the letter from its crudely marked envelope. It read: THIS NOTICE IS FOR CECIL PALMER. YOU HAVE BROKEN THE LAW. YOU MUST REPORT FOR REEDUCATION AT [black smudge] ON [black smudge] at [black smudge] AM.   


"Seriously?" Cecil muttered. 

Frankly, the letter was a graceless tactic. He understood what was expected of him. There was no need to provide such crude reinforcement. They didn't even give a reason, but he did not need that spelled out. He doubted that the Sheriff would have approved, but they were doubtless too busy to personally review every threatening letter from the department. It made no difference to Cecil. He had no intention of changing his plans on their account. 

It was just, he didn't need this right now. He really did not. That it was inevitable didn't help. He held the letter limply for a moment, then let it fall back onto the table and settled into a chair with a dramatic sigh. 

"I guess they just didn't have enough magazines to spell 'acknowledging the existence of angels.'"

"Mm-hmm. You know, maybe not  _ everyone _ approves, but I like it when you are a passionate voice for truth and journalistic integrity," Carlos said. He absentmindedly smacked the "angel acknowledged" alarm above the stove. This was not supposed to turn it off, but theirs had a wire loose. He added, "It's hot." 

Cecil folded the letter again, then stuffed it away into his purse. "As long as  _ you _ are satisfied, my dearest listener." 

"Sure, babe. So... I know how that went, but how are you doing? Was work okay, otherwise?" 

Cecil sighed again. This was less dramatic, not a matter of intention but of overfull lungs. He said quietly, "I'm okay. Work was okay. No. No, work was good. How about you?"

"Fine. Neat, actually, but-" Carlos paused for a clanging of pots as he pulled a colander from the cabinet. "That isn't what  _ you _ want to talk about, though. Is it? It's not really what I wanted to know, either. I was trying to be sensitive by using work as a buffer, but I am more interested in the part about you."

The scientist flicked the dial on the stove, pulled the pot off, and turned to face Cecil with an expression heartbreakingly kind and inquisitive. Cecil sighed a third time, this one lovestruck, and let chin rest on his palm. Even for such simple gestures, he thought, Carlos moved like a dancer. Like the perfected ideal of a dancer. 

Cecil smiled tightly. "I am okay. That is to say, not great, but… you know. Yes. I am… you know." 

Carlos thought it over, then nodded. "I do know. I may not understand perfectly, because everyone experiences these things differently, but I know. I miss her, too." 

"Everyone does  _ that _ , too, I think. Everyone here."

Carlos went on preparing dinner, and Cecil went on voicing his thoughts.

"I just want her wishes to be respected. Everyone misses her, so why can't they do that much?" He straightened up and brought his palm down hard on the table. "She was a pillar of the community! And… and a friend to many of us..."

His hand curled into a fist, knuckles rapping anxiously on the false-lacquered plastic. It was not as if it was simple for him. He did not expect it to be simple, but it hardly seemed anyone else was trying. Well. He had to try. Somehow, in the privacy of his own home, it was more difficult than it had been on the air. This was personal; this was opinion without the shield of journalistic duty. 

He stood abruptly, unable to just  _ sit  _ any longer, and made his way to the cabinet to gather up plates and silverware. He set the table as he continued.

"The angels helped her do it. They helped her be herself, these last few years. She could keep at it because of them - what if she'd fallen off the porch changing that lightbulb? I didn't even know, Carlos, how close we came before. I didn't know."

The angel alarm wailed. Carlos bopped it again. Cecil dipped a few cups into the hot milk drawer, and set them on the table, then arranged the cups they would actually drink out of. 

Carlos said, "I do understand that. I didn't know, either, but I thought about it… often, once I learned. I would not have gotten to know her at all, possibly, except for the angels."

_ Angel acknowledged! Angel acknowledged! _

_ Thwack. _

Cecil placed a fork on top of a napkin, and growled, "I am not above removing that thing."

Carlos placed the pasta, now sauced and resting in a dish, in the center of the table. He leaned in to kiss Cecil's cheek. "Fair enough. But let's have dinner first, okay? I'm starving!"

Cecil slowly scooched his chair closer to Carlos' as they ate, so that by the end of the meal, he was resting his head on the scientist's shoulder. Carlos toyed absently with Cecil's curls as he now told his husband about the life at the laboratory. Cecil was quite content to let the scientist's oaky voice wash over him, to let himself sink into it as he pressed his face into Carlos' lab coat and occasionally kissed his neck. 

"So I told Luisa to check and see if any of the variables had changed, because that's what variables do in science, while I made sure that the equations were still balanced, and she said…"

"Mhmmm?" Cecil almost purred. He really wanted Carlos to go on. He opened his eyes halfway, peering up at the scientist through his lashes and fully intent on kissing him again. 

"Well, you know, I was out a few days ago, so she had to get me up to speed. It was nothing complicated, but it turned out that some of them  _ had _ changed and some of them  _ hadn't _ , so I actually took a look to make sure I understood them all. And she checked the variables." 

"Oooh… I'm glad you got it sorted out," Cecil said. He pulled away, and stood up to clear the table. While he stood at the counter, he continued, "You know, she loved science, too… She always said, 'science is a gateway to terrible and forbidden things. That's why we have scientists to keep what we shouldn't know away from us.'" 

"That is not what scientists do at all," said Carlos. "So she was wrong about that. But she did love science."

He met Cecil at the counter, and ran his hand over his husband's hair, down his cheek. Cecil caught it, and kissed the palm.

"I'm sorry you had to miss work. She loved science, so she would have understood, if you had decided not to do that."

"What?" Carlos laughed, but he had not found Cecil's statement funny. He squinted at his husband. "Why would I not have gone? It was important to honor Josie's life, and even if I had not personally been close to her, I would have absolutely been there to support you."

"Oh. I thought… I mean, I was just thinking… I don't know." 

Cecil dumped their hot milk down the drain, where it swirled into pearlescent streaks. He mouthed the words  _ pearlescent streaks _ to himself. Carlos thought he hadn't heard what Cecil was trying to say, and leaned over to read his lips. 

Cecil started at his husband's face just below his. "No, uh. I was just thinking that… It's my…"

Carlos kissed him, and said, "It is yours, but it is not just yours. We all miss her, like you said, which means that you are not alone, Cecil."

"...Well. Thank you." 

It had barely been two days, but Cecil missed her. He couldn't help thinking about those years - years, but how long, really? That time when he hadn't spoken with her much. He had missed her then, too, but it had somehow never been enough to get him to pick up the phone, or write, or lasso a carrier pigeon and send her a letter. 

Now, he just wished that any of those things would have let him speak to her. He felt that he was in a place more hollow and closed-off than wherever she had gone. He missed her, and she would never know the depth of that grief, even when she was at the center of it.

But she was not all he had. They would move on. The town would stay standing, even without Josie, as difficult as it was to believe. 

Cecil kissed Carlos on his temple, just under where the gray spiraled out into black again. Cecil repeated, "Thank you. I don't know what I'd do without-"

A flash of movement by the window caught his attention, and then speared it and dragged it away into the darkness when it didn't stop - when it kept going and going and there was harsh, heavy rattling all around them. 

There was a train outside of the window. 

Cecil dropped the glass, and covered his ears. The sound of the train, banging, rushing, shrieking over tracks that had never been there before, hammered into his skull. He saw Carlos, too, covering his ears, moving his lips to shout. Cecil heard Carlos, but it was like he was low on oxygen. He heard the scientist calling his name, not as if from a distance or even, as it should have been, over noise. As if he was on a terrible precipice of consciousness. 

"Ceec? Cecil? What's wrong? 

"Cecil!"

Cecil spun around. Without realizing it, he had moved toward the kitchen window, toward the noise. And then there was - silence, not silence, the absence of volume before other sounds could filter back in, and  _ then _ , there was Carlos' shouting his name, which startled him away from the window. 

"I…" Cecil began, compelled to answer, compelled to reassure Carlos, but found nothing further to say. "I'm fine? There was a train. Outside? You heard it, too. I saw you… Right?"

"A train?" Carlos' brow furrowed. "No, I did not see or hear that. I saw the kitchen, as-is, and heard normal nighttime noises. Until you dropped the glass suddenly, seeming very upset. Then I saw you staring out the window, Cecil. That approximately represents the sensory input I experienced over the last few minutes."

"Ah. I see. Well, that was… That happened. Or not. Um. I'm sorry. I'll clean that up."

Cecil crossed the kitchen to grab a broom, but Carlos took his hand to stop him. 

The scientist adjusted his glasses. "It happened for you, sweetie. That means it happened. Our experiences don't have to match exactly to be real. Scientifically speaking, people experience different things all the time. If you tell me more about it, maybe I can help you figure it out? Like, what kind of train was it?" 

"No. I don't know." Cecil was thinking about getting a broom. He would need to clean that up. He needed to let go of Carlos' hand, he thought. He held on tighter.

"Was it a steam train? Oh!" Carlos held up an index finger. "You saw a steam train before, right? Did you see any people-"

"No!" Cecil shivered. He squeezed Carlos' hand, and let go. "I'm sorry. No, I don't know, as far as any of that goes, but I'm alright, I think. So it's fine. And I'm fine." 

"Okay. Okay, good. I'm glad you're fine…" Carlos curled his hand around his chin, pressed his thumb against his lip. "Hmmmm. Something like this did happen before, though. I don't remember it, but you said it did, and I trust you. But you were on the train, at that time, right? Do you think it could be-"

"No! No, I do not think anything about it. Or want to talk about it. It's just been a long day. A long week. That's all."   


"Okay. I won't pressure you. I'm sorry if I was pressuring you. You're right; it's been a long week. We should clean that up, but then, do you want to a watch a movie?"

"No, no. It's fine. It's-" Cecil smiled, and heaved a relieved sigh. "Yes. Please. Let's watch a movie. That sounds… relaxing." 

Carlos smiled back. "How does Cat Ballou sound?"

Cecil clapped his hands quietly.  "Oh, Carlos, that would be perfect!"

While Carlos set up the movie, Cecil went to get the broom. He didn't understand what had happened, so it may as well have not happened at all. 

He was sure it wouldn't come up again.


	2. Nothing Serious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos has a strange experience.
> 
> Cecil experiences nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: bugs, canon-typical police activity (but described more than the show does)

Carlos woke up. Someone was banging on the front door. There was no correlation between these events. He did not know what had woken him. The clock read 6:15AM. It was a pleasing sequence of numbers which could fit into an accurate equation, but it told him nothing about what time it was.

The physical weight of sleep behind his eyes suggested that it was early, though. The washed-out light filtering through the curtains and the distant noise of sunrise also supported this hypothesis. He rolled over, to wrap an arm over Cecil and commiserate about the inconvenience. His arm fell against the sheets. The bed was empty.

"Oops. Sorry, hon. I was going to try to be out the door before they got here, but I got off to a slow start."

Cecil was in front of the dresser, tugging a poncho into place. He examined himself, humming syllabically to a chant Carlos did not recognize.

"Mmm? 'S fine. Wha's goin' on?" Carlos mumbled into the pillow.

Cecil shrugged. "Oh, you know. I spoke about the existence of angels on the air, so now I've got to go to reeducation classes."

The knocking had continued, underscoring the entire conversation. Carlos sat up. He did not know what had woken him, but now he was glad to be awake. "Oh. Right. Do you need help with breakfast? Or anything else?"

Cecil leaned over and kissed the top of Carlos' head. "No, no. You don't need to get up; I ate already."

Carlos frowned. "Okay…"

It was fine. It had been fine yesterday, and it would be fine today. It was always fine. Carlos knew that, although he had never been reeducated and he suspected Cecil was responsible. Cecil would never admit it, but it was the only explanation that made sense. Anyway, Cecil had gone himself plenty of times; even more before Carlos had ever met him. It was always fine, and - as Cecil himself insisted - necessary for civic order.

Classes, Cecil said, like they were held at the rec center. There just wasn't any way that Carlos could frame the issue to make the entire concept any more pleasant. Whatever word you used, scientifically speaking, it was creepy.

Cecil reassured his husband, "I'll just be out for a day or so. Maybe a week, if they're feeling saucy."

Carlos snorted. "Babe! What does that even mean in this context?"

Cecil folded his arms over his chest. "Don't I always say what I mean, dear Carlos? Anyway, you have a good day-to-week at work. I'd better get going before they try to force an entry, though. I love you."

He bent down again for a kiss, which Carlos gave gladly, with a whisper of, "I love you, too."

* * *

 

This time, Sheriff Sam waited for Cecil outside.

"Ooh!" Cecil smiled, skirting the edge of _friendly_ toward _cheeky_. Not so much that he couldn't keep plausible deniability. "And isn't this an honor. A personal escort by the sheriff themself."

Sam's squinted so quickly that it was more like a twitch, before their face settled into the grooves of exasperation worn onto it. "Yes, well. I wanted a word, Sessil."

"I have many. Take your pick."

Sam gave Cecil a withering look. "Do you really understand what you're doing?"

Cecil did consider it. He folded his arms, and stared gravely at an undefined point just over Sam's head. Finally, he announced, "Yes. Yes, _Sheriff_ , I do."

"I don't _think_ you do. This is your town, Cecil. Your government has these rules in place for the safety and well-being of everyone. We aren't dealing with interlopers here."

"Of course not. I am merely honoring the memory of a respected member of the community."

"Yes, yes, I understand. It's very sad. A natural part of life, but sad and terrible, as is everything about life. That said, you cannot keep bandying on about this, because… It is against the law."

"Sooo… It's against the law because it's bad, and it's bad because it's against the law?"

"Precisely."

"That makes perfect sense." Cecil swept his hands open, palms out; a gesture perhaps too grand for the moment. "But things change, right? Maybe it was bad, but things are not what they were a few days ago!"

"Ugh… You have got to understand, Sessil-"

"It's Cecil."

Sam glared at him for interrupting, and huffed, "Sometimes, things change, but only after the appropriate amount of paperwork is filed and approved by the City Council."

Cecil regarded them blankly for a moment. "In the first place… to fill out paperwork about the angels, they'd need to have a legal existence."

"There you go again! There are no such things as angels! Right. That's enough of that, I think."

Sam nodded, and two Secret Police officers marched up to Cecil. He rolled his eyes, but arranged his hands behind his back, and bent his head. One officer secured handcuffs around Cecil's wrists. The other drew a black hood over Cecil's head.

Just before the darkness closed over his eyes, a cockroach scuttled over his shoe and seemingly up his pant leg. He started backward, and one of the officers admonished him to stay still. Cecil didn't feel anything on his leg, after that. So it must have been nothing, or his imagination, or his mind reshaping a loose thread on the bag into a bug.

It was probably nothing.

* * *

 

Carlos woke up again, supposedly forty-six minutes after Cecil left. He brushed his teeth, and got dressed. He selected a simple day-wear lab coat. He made the bed, and ate breakfast. Each motion was carefully considered and chosen from a range of options. Also in that range were pacing around the bedroom, which he had avoided, and brushing his teeth for five minutes without realizing it, which had not been intentional. But, for the most part, he stayed focused. He was out the door in plenty of time.

As usual, he reached the lab before anyone else. He unlocked the door and stepped into the clean, chemically-scented gray of the unlit facility. There was a certain amount of pleasure in this; 32, measured in his preferred unit of joy. There was no standard unit of joy, so he used the number of equations he could fit on a blackboard at one time as a baseline.

He didn't even need a physical list anymore, although he had one, and ticked off each item as he went:

Lights - on.

Computers - at long last, licensed. And on.

Scales - on and calibrated.

Beakers - filled with liquid.

Liquid - bubbling.

Devices - on and blinking in primary colors.

The word "science" with hearts around it - written on the blackboard.

And so on, until the lab was ready for the day. It was like, not breathing, not quite so intrinsic as that, but like walking, maybe. He had learned to do it, and now it got him everywhere he needed to go. Yes, that was the most scientific simile he could think of.

He went into his office and shut the door. He wrote down the simile, and then he could have gotten an early start on his experiment. He should have done that. But as he was reaching for the box that held the automotive shoes, the slow blink of the computer in sleep-mode caught his eye. He took a seat at his desk. While the computer started up, he ran a hand over the license taped on the top corner. There. Better. It had already been peeling a bit.

When the browser had loaded, he typed, "Night Vale Transit Authority" into the search bar.

No results.

"Night Vale train station"

No results.

"Night Vale what happened to the trains"

A warning that his searches were being monitored. And some image results. A news blogger's final entry before their bloody death. All the text had been replaced with solid black bars, but there was still a picture. Two overturned cockroaches with text visible between their wriggling legs. One said, "Grand" The other said, "Opening!" Another picture, this one of a cluster of deer-masked spokesbeings behind a podium.

He remembered that from a few years ago. It was why he had started his search where he did. That was almost all he knew about trains in Night Vale, and so, all he could extrapolate from. There was nothing new, predictably. He teased the wedding band around his finger, and then typed in the last relevant term he could recall.

"Huntokar"

Carlos had heard the name just a few months ago, in reference to an unsubstantiated report that the subway would reopen. The name had another context, too; not related obviously to a subway system, but to a single, anachronistic train. Almost no one could remember it, including Carlos.

He nonetheless believed that it had definitely been real in some capacity. There was some evidence: Cecil had seen it, just as he had seen the train last night. Carlos could not remember these vehicles, but he remembered Cecil's experience of them. Their physical existence was questionable, but Carlos knew well that not everything in Night Vale existed.

He hit enter. There was a whirring, a _blip_ , and his computer shut down. A line of cockroaches streamed from his computer tower and down the desk. He shouted in the same moment that his throat seized up, so it came out wordless and choked, and kicked his chair back. The cockroaches hurried through a crack in the wall but, thinking quickly, he got a mug over the last one. He put a book on top, just to be safe, and then took a minute for some breathing exercises.

"O-kay." He glanced at the computer tower. "Time to burn that."

It wasn't really a big deal, in any case. He had more than enough copper and twine to build another.

He called Nilanjana into his office when she arrived. The necessary procedure was incredibly delicate, and he would need some assistance. He briefed her on the situation, and she helped him gather the required materials.

Carlos scraped the mug off the counter, onto a manila folder; the perfect balance of sturdy, but thin.

He said, "Right. The jar, please."

"Ready." She nudged a clear, plastic jar over the counter. Carlos placed the folder on top, and, with the surgical precision necessary, lined up the lips of the jar and the mug.

"Okay," he said. "Here we go…"

He held the vessels in place. Nilanjana slid the folder out. They waited.

Waited.

Stopped breathing.

Finally, a small, black shape skittered down the interior of the jar. Nilanjana slipped the folder back into place. The mug was removed; the jar was flipped upside-down with the folder underneath and placed on the counter.

They let out the air they had been holding in their fragile, desperate lungs. Observation chamber construction: complete.

Nilanjana examined the insect under the glass. " _Blattella germanica_."

Carlos replied, "Yup. It is, in scientific terms, super gross."

"So, what did you want it for?"

"I wanted to see…" Carlos was crouched over the counter, one hand balanced on his knee and the other holding a magnifying glass over the jar. "If it has a message for us. Well, not for us, specifically; I meant that in a dramatic sense. But it may have a message."

The roach crawled up the side of the jar. Its tiny abdomen read, _Huntokar._

Carlos whispered, "I have a bad feeling about this."

Feelings generally were a tricky and imprecise subject. It was chemistry, so Carlos knew little about it. Bad feelings specifically, however, could be very scientific. They were often based on sensory input that the brain had processed without making the information available to its consciousness. But a thorough scientific investigation, following the appropriate method, was often the best way to understand the problem. Once it was understood, it could be solved.

* * *

 

Carlos came home to find the house dark, and a silhouette stretched on the couch. He stood on the threshold of the living room, stock still, but the features were familiar enough that he could pick them out in the dimness.

"Cecil? Are you awake?" Carlos whispered, in case his husband was asleep. Cecil was an unfortunately light sleeper, so it would likely have woken him, anyway, but it was important to the scientist to be considerate.

"Oh! Hi, honey!" Cecil sounded as cheerful as was typical, but he had an arm pressed over his eyes and did not stir otherwise. "You're home early."

"Actually, I am home late," Carlos corrected. "And you, sweetie, are home early. Are you alright?"

"Huh." Cecil raised his arm, and checked his watch. Then, he tucked his knees up, so that Carlos could sit down on the freed cushion. The scientist placed a hand on one of Cecil's knees, and peered over them anxiously.

Cecil said, "I'm fine. Well. I'm okay. But it's fine. Nothing serious."

"Are you sure? You don't look okay. Also, that's your especially mellow ongoing-governmental-disaster voice you're using."

"I am tired. It was… a long day." Cecil laughed. A sound with cracks running through. He had not expected Carlos home. "But the Secret Police must be fuming. I'm sure it was even longer for them."

Carlos shifted, leaning on one arm over Cecil's knees and tucking his feet under himself, though he kept most of his weight on the couch back.

"For the Secret Police? Huh. Do you know why reeducation doesn't really work on you?" Carlos asked, and then pressed a hand over his mouth. That sounded like the exact sort of intersection of municipal and personal that Cecil would in no way want to discuss, and frankly, it would be stupid of either of them to have that discussion in front of the multitude of listening devices in their home.

Cecil just gave Carlos a look that could best be described as _funny._ A crinkled little smile that curled at the edges. "Doesn't it?"

"Hmm," Carlos acknowledged.

That was all there was to say. The night settled in around them. Carlos thought, a couple of times, about getting up to make dinner.

Cecil thought of nothing at all. This was the easiest to think after a reeducation session, and he found it relaxing. 

When Carlos finally stood up, Cecil pushed himself upright, too. He wore an easy, but slightly worrying, smile. A disconnected smile. He held out a hand, stopping Carlos on his way to the kitchen. He said, "I will tell _you_ a secret. Come here?"

Carlos leaned over, and Cecil stretched up. He kissed Carlos' cheek, and whispered in his ear, words that were a suggestion of vibration, that Carlos had to strain to hear.

Cecil said, "When I am lost, when I cannot tell where I am or who, I will look at this." He tapped the wristwatch that Carlos had given him. "If I can see this, I can see what else is around me. And I know where I am. And I know who, as much as anyone can know something as fragile as self, because _you_ gave this to _me_."

"I see. Then I am glad I gave it to you," Carlos said quietly. He took Cecil's hand, and kissed his knuckle, just above his wedding band. Carlos straightened, but did not let go. "You've had a long day, speaking both literally and figuratively. So have I, although more literally. Would you like to order out tonight?"

"Oh. Mhm. That sounds nice. If we could save some leftovers for tomorrow, that'd be great."

"Do you have to go back tomorrow, too?"

"Oh, yes. They are not done with me." Cecil smiled in the darkness. Only his eyes were bright. They reflected all the light there was on their pale surface. "They have not achieved their desired result."

Carlos squeezed Cecil's hand. Then he registered that if he was going to order dinner instead of making it, he could do it from his phone. He sat down, this time so that Cecil's back was to him, and said, "You can lie down again, if you want to."

Cecil stretched out over Carlos' lap. Carlos turned on the TV over Cecil's head. They watched a documentary about the color chartreuse, keeping the volume soft. They moved only in slight gestures: Carlos' fingertips twining a strand of Cecil's hair, and Cecil absently stroking Carlos' knee. Touch for the sake of touch.

The night had settled in around them, and there was no reason to disturb it. It could only be too short.

* * *

 

A long day, again. The hours had nothing to do with it. Night Vale's habit of rolling out time until it snapped, like an overeager child crafting a playdough snake, had nothing to do with it.

Cecil did not feel the chair underneath him, or the restraints on his wrists and ankles. He did not feel his own pulse, made languid and careless by the drugs they had given him.

He did not see the bright screen in the darkness. He could not look away from it, as they had restrained his head, too. Tight metal behind his ears kept him facing forward.

He did not hear the sounds in the headphones they had fitted him with; high-pitched tones, low-pitched grinding, and shouting, distorted voices which told him the correct way to think and be.

They were not unkind. They assumed he had merely forgotten. He had forgotten, and they would remind him. It was thoughtful of them to go through all this trouble for the sake of a single citizen. He had forgotten, and it was alright. It was alright. They would help him forget. He could let go, and he did. He forgot the name of his new intern; the lyrics to the sea shanties for the ants; the discrepancy in the Secret Police's budget, which he had been debating a report on.

He forgot the existence of angels, and their hierarchy. He forgot his grief.

He did not feel or remember or think. It was easiest not to think, or it was not even about that. He had no ability to think in the first place.

Eventually, the screen went dark. The sounds cut off. The drugs did not leave his system immediately, and so it did not worry him when no one came to unbind him. He closed his eyes, and made an effort to let the tension out of his body, although he could not change his posture.

_Ugh. Thank goodness_ , was his first conscious thought. They were done for the day. He would go home to his husband, soon. He would have to do a better job of composing himself first; although, maybe they could take a walk. Get his blood flowing, and some fresh air to clear his head.

A door opened behind him, but Cecil didn't notice until Secret Police Officer Wilman released the headpiece, and slipped a bag back over his head. Officer Wilman undid the straps, and Cecil was pulled from his daydreams. His hands and feet stung with renewed circulation, although his hands were not free for long, anyway. They were tied behind his back again, and he was forced forward, stumbling at first on his stiff legs.

Someone stopped them on their way out.

"I do hope you've learned _something_ this time, Sessil. I really do."

Cecil had to think before he could answer, in part because Sam had not, in fact, used his name, when he was already struggling to order his thoughts. He was glad, at least, that they could not tell how much they had thrown him off with their little jab.

"Oh. Oh, you don't need to worry about that, Sheriff. It's always... _very_ informative. Maybe a little dry, though. I'd, I'd work on that. You know. To keep your listeners engaged."

"It isn't supposed to be entertaining. That isn't your job, either. You _do_ understand your position, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Then act like it. I mean it, Sessil. I'm trying to be _friendly._ This is the last warning you will get. Do _you_ hear _me_ this time?"

"Loud and clear, Sheriff. Loud and clear."

"We'll see about that," Sam scoffed. They instructed Officer Wilman, "I want him back here tomorrow, bright and early."

It was Cecil who answered. "Absolutely, Sheriff. I'm already looking forward to it."

Sam _tsk_ ed and, presumably, gestured. Wilman pushed Cecil forward again, forcing him outside. He moved with her, this time, as he recovered his footing. They walked together into a perfect desert sunset, golden and dim, drawing in the night over them.


	3. Uninformed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got thrown off a bit by the holiday, among other things! Things may be a bit uneven through the first of the year, but I don't anticipate falling too far behind. Thanks! \o
> 
> Warnings include: bugs. That's a serious one in this.

Carlos had to rebuild his computer a few times over the next several days. If someone sat down and plotted out the data, where the x-axis read "time" and the y-axis "number of computer breakages," they would have seen an obvious increase correlating with Cecil's reeducation. At six days in, he needed to replace his computer five times in one day.

The end results were serious concern about a cockroach infestation, and something from City Hall showing up to take his computer license away for a three-month suspension. They left the computer, though, along with its power source, so it was at most a minor inconvenience. Nothing that would impede the progress he wasn't making. 

He had tried attaching devices to his growing collection of specimens. One had wriggled out and escaped, and then he spent the better part of that morning modifying the sensors to fit the others. The data merely confirmed Nilanjana's observation:  _ blattella germanica. _ He noted down the words on their abdomens:  _ station, center, blood (x3, one in all caps –  _ his favorite, it had character _ ), efficient.  _ “ _ Clean _ ” and “ _ energy _ ” were the only two that obviously went together.

There was only one  _ Huntokar. _

He felt totally detached from whatever experiment he was trying to complete. He had no hypothesis, no variables or control. He didn't even know if there was an experiment. Something about the subway, but it wasn't really about the subway. The question was, what question was he trying to answer? He absently scrawled out on a clipboard:  _ How can I help him?  _ _ Can _ _ I help him? Does he want help? _

He bit down on the end of his pen. Maybe Cecil didn't even need help. Maybe it was just something about Cecil. Or it was about what Cecil did, like those nights when he did not come on the radio, and Carlos did not need to pick it apart like this, or in any other way. It just, well, it seemed to  _ upset _ Cecil, so.

Carlos' research into the subway system - or whatever this was really about, the thing upsetting his husband - had been a dead end, in any case. He could learn nothing about the trains through laboratory methods, but there were places to find trains other than a science lab. 

There was the baseball diamond, where Cecil had witnessed that first, anachronistic vehicle, but part of the problem was that it had left behind no evidence. Carlos had gone over the area for a dirt sample at the time, and checked for rail-splinters or nails from the original track.

The dirt was just dirt, scientifically speaking. Ground-up bits of rock and insects and arachnids. Bone fragments and hide from when the Glow Cloud had last come through. High levels of radiation. He had also not found anything other than dirt there.

Then there was the subway itself. It had been shut down years ago, and sealed off. Rumors and reports of its reopening since had been unfounded, so far. The station entrances now existed only as tacky monuments to the futility of public transit in this country. But they did exist. He could go and see them. There was one within walking distance of the lab. 

He took his car, anyway, to bring additional devices for data collection. If he was going to pursue this line of inquiry, it was important to be thorough. It was always important to be thorough. 

He was in the middle of setting up his equipment, fixing electrodes to the stone railing and brick seal, and calibrating the devices to detect what was beneath, when a swarm of cockroaches spilled from under the bricks. He lifted the nearest device off the ground, and stepped back with it, but it was already attached. He caught himself when the cables went taut, cradling the device.

The cockroaches gathered around his shoes, but they did not touch him. They formed a barrier around his feet, too wide to step over. They were also crawling up the sides of his remaining equipment.

"Hey!" He shouted, as if they could understand him, but he knew that they were too small to have a brain with any capacity for language. Even the tone he had used would mean nothing to them. He raised the device in his arms above his head, and inched one foot forward. The cockroaches did not move away from him.

He lowered the device again for a better grip against his chest, and stepped into the swarm. Under his weight, a patch of cockroaches became a mess of cracked shells and gore, although he had no doubt that most of them would limp away from the scene and go on to reproduce in the way that bugs did. There would be more of them soon enough.

Nonetheless, he flinched, both from the texture under his shoe, crunchy but yielding, and guilt. He hadn't come here to hurt anything. Hurting things was not ever supposed to be a part of science.

"Stop."

Carlos didn't quite. He eased his foot forward again, trying once more to nudge past the cockroaches. They grew bolder at his advance, and were now crawling over the edges of his shoes. He did not want to encourage them further. He looked back to see who had spoken. 

A woman in a deer mask stood in front of the subway entrance. She wore the unobtrusive, black suit of a government agent. As she came toward him, the roaches scuttled away from her heels. 

Carlos asked, "Are you with the transit authority?"

"Yes. Those are our marketing materials you just crushed. And you are…" She folded her arms over her chest. She was appraising him, possibly. It was difficult to tell, but she did not appear to be on the defensive. "You are the scientist."

"I am a scientist, yes," he confirmed. "My name is Carlos."

Although, if she lived in this town, there was almost no way she didn't know that, and to be fair, Carlos was indisputably the scientist in Night Vale. There were others, but for a significant number of the population who were not themselves those others, the use of that definite article would have qualified  _ the _ scientist as him.

"Do you have an interest in engineering, as well?" She asked.

"No. Just science. But, like everything else in this town, the subway is scientifically interesting. So I thought I would look into it."

This was true, as far as his professional interest was concerned. He could think of no reason to tell her about his personal interest, and in fact could have come up with several reasons not to, not the least of which was that she was giving him goosebumps just standing there, and he couldn't think of a reason for that. It was a distinctly unscientific sensation.

The mask was unsettling, scientifically speaking, but not that unsettling. The way the cockroaches had moved around her, or even moved for her - that was in the right direction. He was close to describing the problem.

He had no free hand to check his danger meter. He would have liked to have checked his danger meter.

"That's unfortunate," she mused. "You have such vast knowledge, and it has brought so much to this town. It has kept us safe."

"Science is always on the side of good," Carlos said. "Keeping people safe is a natural byproduct of doing science correctly."

"You are too modest. You are a hero."

Why were the hairs on the back of his neck standing up? In spite of her herbivorous guise, she was triggering those memories of being prey coded into his genetics. Carlos thought,  _ I need to leave.  _ And then:  _ I am not ready to leave. I have not learned anything yet. _ Also, his arms were starting to hurt.

"I'm not a hero. I'm a scientist. Now, if you don't mind, I have some experiments to do."

"I'm afraid that I - we - do mind. But you have not escaped her notice. Or mine." She stepped closer. Her heels clicked on empty pavement.

"Okay. That's… vaguely threatening. I don't know who 'she' is. Who are you talking about?" Carlos asked. His arms hurt. She was standing too close to him; the snout of her mask even with the device. He lifted it slightly, both to adjust it and to demonstrate its presence. "Listen, it would just take about half an hour, assuming that time will stay linear, which I cannot. But still, if I can just run a few-"

"I said no. If you aren't interested in subway operations, then you need to leave." She placed a thoughtful fingertip against her snout - the snout of her mask. To what degree did that make it hers? 

Carlos did not hesitate. "Well. Well, what if I am interested in subway operations? From a scientific perspective."

The spokeswoman did hesitate, but it was exact, like she was counting instead of thinking. "We  _ might _ be able to use a scientific perspective, it is true. I will have to consult with our director."

"Your director… Is that who 'she' is?"

"I will need to consult with her before we make any decisions. And you do need to go. After all, I'm sure you have science to do, and your work is… Yes, it is crucial for this community, isn't it? We will leave the science to you. You can leave the subway operations to us. For now." 

"This is where I was planning to do science, so I'm fine. If you don't want to talk, you can just say that." He couldn't force her. He would just have to return at a later date for his experiments. He told her, "I need to be able to move my equipment, at least. Anyway, the subway has not been operating for some time - is that going to change soon?"

"I cannot speak about that." The masked woman turned away from him, and approached the presumably sealed entrance. "It is up to Huntokar." 

Carlos started after her, heedless of his surroundings, thinking only of the name she had spoken and all that he wanted to know about it. "Wait! Is there any way I can- ghh, oh, gross-!"

The cockroaches were scuttling up his legs, over and under the cuffs of his jeans. He scrambled back, trying to shake them off, and dropped the device. The crash, and rattling as parts inside came loose, scared most of the bugs away. The last few stragglers followed them, perhaps sensing danger apart from their swarm. The spokeswoman had vanished with them.

He rolled up his jeans carefully, checking the fabric with each fold, and then examining his skin underneath. He did not find any roaches, but tonight would have to be laundry night, and a long shower. Then he placed his head in his hands, took a huge breath in, and sighed it out. Tonight would have to be laundry night, and a long shower.

He spent less time on his equipment. Every piece would need to be disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled, and this would have to happen at the lab. He picked up the device he had dropped. It left behind several buttons on the ground.

"Ugh! Seriously?"

He was getting nowhere with the subway.

At least the situation made a scientifically accurate pun.

* * *

 

Cecil heard the apartment door open, and came out into the living room. Carlos joined him there, and did not stop to put his bag down. He rested his hands on Cecil's shoulders, stretching up to kiss his husband. They ignored the bag as it bumped against Carlos' hip, and Cecil's thigh. Cecil placed a hand on the small of Carlos' back to hold him close.

Finally, Carlos settled back onto his heels, and slipped his hands down, wrapping his arms around his husband.

He let his head settle against Cecil's chest, and Cecil said, "Hello, bunny. How was your day?"

Carlos was silent for a minute. Then he shook his head, and nuzzled into his husband's shirt with the gesture. "Ugh, babe. Stressful. We can talk about it later, though. Right now, I want to talk about the fact that I am so glad you're home. Are you feeling okay?"

"Mhmmm." Cecil teased a strand of Carlos' hair lightly in his fingertips. "For now, they are done with me. So consider me all yours."

"Oh! Good! Great! I am going to need a shower, and then we should see about dinner. What were you thinking?"

"Oh. Um. About that… I  _ may _ have made dinner already? Or, no. No, I mean, I did make dinner." Cecil smiled sheepishly. "I was going to surprise you."

"Aww, babe!" Carlos smiled back. "You definitely surprised me. You're such a sweetheart!"

"Well, I just, I was feeling up to it, so… you know…" Cecil's ears were scarlet. "If you need to shower first, that's fine! I can put it back on, you know, simmering. So it won't get cold."

"You don't need to worry about it, Ceec."

Cecil pressed a fond hand to Carlos' cheek. "I'm not worried about it. I want to. I want it to be… Well. I'd like it to be perfect, but that isn't happening. I want it to be just right."

"Okay. Do you want help moving things around?"

"No, you go ahead and shower!" Cecil placed a hand on Carlos' cheek. He was still blushing, his heart still thudding from being called  _ sweet _ by this sweetest of men, who was also somehow married to him. His expression softened. "I just… I'm glad to be home, too. I wanted to do something for you."

In spite of his previous intentions, Carlos took a short shower. There had never been evidence that he would take any  _ guests _ home with him. It was less a precautionary measure than it was for his emotional wellbeing, and he was already feeling much better. He could start the laundry after dinner, just because it was better to be safe than it was to be sorry, scientifically speaking.

Cecil must have heard him turning the water off, because he had already replaced the food. He had set the table, in addition to preparing dinner.

Carlos spent most of his days at the laboratory. Cecil spent most of, well. Most of some nebulous time required of him at the radio station. They were both proud to have jobs that meant something to them, which allowed the lines between professional and personal satisfaction to blur, and which they could truly devote themselves to.

In learning to balance this pride with each other, they had together stumbled upon an old truth, that mealtimes were sacred. For some people, this meant marking them out with holy words or ceremonies. For the two of them, it began in the act of making the meal, and it was completed in the act of making time.

"Thanks, Ceec!" Carlos kissed his husband before taking a seat.

They held hands across the table, until the use of utensils demanded otherwise. They chatted. Cecil hummed a few bars of the weather, and Carlos asked what Cecil wanted from the store. They both got involved in a discussion on whether or not gravity was real. Cecil was pretty certain it wasn't, but Carlos said that it was – and they had better not trust it, because it was definitely trying to crush them. Cecil could accept that.

And then Carlos said, "I wanted to ask you something.” 

Cecil set his chin on his knuckles, and grinned. "You know the rules. If you've got a question, it's 'Hey there, Cecil.'"

"Mmm." Carlos twisted his ring around his finger as he spoke, peering thoughtfully into the bright metal. "Well, I was wondering if you'd heard anything about the subway reopening lately?"

Cecil dropped his hand, and straightened up. "No. Why?"

"It seemed like something you might know about. I was researching it while you- While you were out. I actually met someone from the transit authority, but she was not very helpful. She kind of implied that it  _ might _ be reopening soon, but she was vague and, frankly, rude about it when I asked."

Carlos did not mention the cockroaches. Even he did not really want to think about the cockroaches.

"Ah." Cecil said, "I understand. Are you concerned about the subway, Carlos?"

Carlos hesitated, then said, "It seemed like you might be?"

"No. No, I'm…" He drummed his fingertips on the tabletop. "I have enough going on right now. I have a responsibility to Josie."

Carlos laid his hand on the table, palm up, and Cecil placed his own over it, wrapping his fingers underneath.

He continued, "And that. That is something I have to deal with. I am in the one in a position to deal with it. So… So. Carlos, I don't… want to get in the way of your research, but, as a personal request: leave it alone. Please. Just… for a little while, at least?"

"Of course, honey." Carlos squeezed Cecil's hand. "You're not interfering. I was thinking that it might be helpful. If it is not helpful, then I won't. There are many other scientifically fascinating things here, like, the other day someone donated a whole box of shoes to the Goodwill, but we observed that…"

Cecil allowed Carlos to go on. He enjoyed listening to his husband. Carlos had a way with language that rivaled his own, where science was concerned, and in certain other areas. Often, those other areas intersected intimately with science. He toyed with the idea, but only privately.

In truth, he was tired. The past few days had taken something out of him, and he had made dinner in part because it helped him find that thing again. Listening to Carlos, to his oaky voice and intelligent words, setting forth with such clarity the nature of the world, helped more.

He would be back on the radio tomorrow, but for tonight, all he needed - and wanted - to do was listen.


	4. Efficacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that this is kind of where things get serious/intense, delving into material (and angst) that's like... Not based on anything specific that takes place in canon? Based on the world, to be sure, but the events are pretty much all new from here.
> 
> I'll just go ahead and spoil it and say there's going to be a happy ending. But it's going to take some doing to get there.
> 
> Being more honest than I probably should: I've been staring at this for a while, and frankly, it's not quite what I wanted to be. But... I think it gets the point across. I hope it's interesting, in any case. So I know that's not really the best way to get anyone psyched up, but let me know what you think?

_ "...have asked that whoever is throwing babies into the river to please stop. Also, if anyone knows anything about the river flowing out of the Whispering Forest, please contact my husband, Carlos, at his lab. He's trying to get this all figured out. _

_ And now, an- Oh, ew! Ew, are those cockroaches? Do- do something about that, please, I don't- What? Gustav, there were- Oh, I guess you're right. There's nothing there. _

_ Ahem. And now, an editorial piece. Please note that the opinions expressed in this editorial do not reflect the views of station management, because they are awfully cowardly for an incomprehensibly-sized being, and would not allow me report this without this disclaimer. _

_ Actually, they would not allow me to report this at all. I didn't tell them I was still going to do it, so consider the disclaimer a courtesy. _

_ Angels are real. You heard me describe their hierarchy last week. You have heard me mention them before, by name - they are all named Erika, with a "K." More than that, you have all seen them with your own eyes, going about town with their vast wingspans and many arms and impossible black glow. _

_ It is forbidden to speak about them, but we must all speak for them now, those of us with existences legally acknowledged. So, I will speak for them. All the angels want to do is to continue to support the arts in Night Vale. And this is terrible. The arts are often dangerous. Often, the arts are terrifying and promote unapproved thoughts. _

_ But without the foundation for the arts founded by Josie and her angel friends, what material would we have to censor? What would we protest the showing of in theaters? What would we shield our children's eyes from? _

_ We must stand up for the angels, Night Vale, so that they can keep doing their good work. For the sake of our children. For the sake of our  _ community.

_ That concludes this brief editorial. _

_ The City Council has just now tattooed a press release in code on the neck of a hollow-eyed child. _

_ ‘Don't listen to him,’ the Council said. ‘He doesn't know what he's talking about. He can't even tell if... a train is real or not… Don't believe him?’ _

_ Hey! What is this? That has nothing to do with anything I was saying, I mean… It's apples and oranges. Angels and trains. At least apples and oranges are both fruit, right? Wow. Um. _

_ You know what time it is, listeners? It's time for a word from our sponsors! _

* * *

Carlos kicked an envelope across the hall on his way in. Another unsealed letter. It had hardly been a week since the last one. He tugged at the collar of his lab coat as he bent to grab it, and, yes, that was-

Hold on.

His saw the capital "C" and his brain filled in, "Cecil" for him automatically, but. The shape of the last name was wrong. It did not say "Palmer." It did not say Cecil, either.

Carlos did not understand why he was shaking. His body's response did not match up with reality as he understood it. Cecil was reeducated all the time. It was always fine. Carlos was a scientist. He was always fine. There would not be any problem, and there was no reason to worry.

Still, he thought he had better let Cecil know, sooner rather than later. Like, now. He pulled out his cellphone, and selected his husband's number.

Cecil answered on the first ring. "Hi, Carlos! What's up?"

Carlos answered honestly. "Well. Well. Paint and plywood, mainly, the building materials of our house and many other buildings and also of the artificial sky that protects us from the real sky. That is not what I called to talk about."

"Okay," Cecil said, his own voice softening in response to his husband's concern. No, anxiety. No, just concern. "What did you call to talk about?"

"There's another letter from the Secret Police here. I wanted to let you know about it."

"Oooh, okay. It's really not a big deal, I promise. Just leave it-"

"No, um. Cecil? It's for me. I am scheduled for reeducation, although, of course, it does not say when," Carlos corrected.

" _ What? _ "

Carlos held the phone away from his ear as Cecil went on. He could hear just as well.

"No. Oh, no. No, Carlos. Don't worry, we'll get this figured out. I have to make another call, and-"

Carlos put the phone back to his ear, and waited an indeterminate number of seconds. Then, he specifically counted to ten, and said, "Are you there?"

"Yes," Cecil answered softly. "Yes, I'm sorry. It's tonight, Carlos. It's- listen, I'm coming home now, okay? Don't go anywhere with anyone until I get there. Please. Even if they are Secret Police."

"Okay, Cecil. Well, you know what?"

"Yes?"

"I love you. I'm sure it will be fine. No big deal. It's a part of life here."

Cecil's sigh crackled through the speaker. "It… is. It is that. I love you, too. I'll see you soon."

Carlos agreed, "Okay. Goodbye."

Cecil already had the phone to his ear again. It burned, but was not literally on fire. So he could ignore it. 

"Sheriff, what is the meaning of this?"

Few people could audibly convey a headache with the clarity that Sam did.  "The meaning of what, Sessil? I can't understand you when you're being ominous and cryptic." 

"You know exactly what I mean," Cecil hissed. 

"Well. Alright, let's pretend that I do for a moment. Of course, this is purely hypothetical. It is also off the record."

"Of course. Fine. Whatever!"

"If I had, hypothetically, received orders from above… Then my hands are tied. Anyway, we really can't have people going around like that. Asking questions about things. Questioning things. It's dangerous."

"It is. And some of us are aware of that, and act accordingly. Some of us are prepared to take on that risk."

"That's the problem, isn't it? That's hardly a risk at all."

"No, the problem is, you are going to hurt someone who has nothing to do with this!"

"It is a matter of public safety, Sessil. Every citizen of Night Vale has a stake in this; you of all people know that. Or if you don't, maybe  _ this _ time, you'll learn? At least make an effort, would you?" 

"Sheriff. Listen to me. You cannot do this."

"I told you before, didn't I? I tried to warn you. I tried to be friendly, and now… You are dealing with people who are not as friendly as me." They stopped, coughed. "Or, you know, you would be, if you were dealing with anyone. And if we were dealing with these people, my hands would be tied."

"Oh. I understand. You can't do anything." Cecil murmured, "I'm sure you might not even be able to make it tonight."    


"It doesn't work like that, I'm afraid."

"No. No, it doesn't, but… Who decides how it works? Have you ever considered the possibility that… maybe it could work differently?" Cecil probed his way through the sentence, half-wondering at what he found there.

Sam's scoffed,  "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you say that. We'll be by later, Cecil."

"Sheriff, I really need you to listen-"

Sam hung up. Cecil immediately tried to call them back, but this time, he got a nosebleed in the attempt. They must have switched on do-not-disturb. Whatever. He couldn't spend all night on the phone, anyway. He needed to have been home ten minutes ago.

* * *

Carlos dropped his phone back into his pocket. Their conversation had not been remotely reassuring. Reeducation was, supposedly, the simple and benign process of correcting citizens' incorrect thoughts. It was more a matter of scalpels than sledgehammers, done delicately by people with training and attention to detail. While unpleasant, it was reportedly necessary for civic order. Cecil had reported this to him.

Cecil had also just contradicted most of this information. He had obviously panicked when confronted with Carlos experiencing it. Carlos went into their bedroom, and opened his side of the closet. A row of lab coats hung inside, organized by style and color. He slipped off the one he was wearing in favor of something more bland. Nothing he particularly favored, or wore day-to-day.

Something he wouldn't mind being stained. He did not know the origin of all his husband's scars, but some of them were very precise. Not the ragged cut of obsidian. Not the thoughtless slash of a cat's spine. Medical, or governmental. It was not a difficult conclusion to draw.

These were all parts of life in Night Vale. It was a law in both the scientific and extralegal senses: to call Night Vale home was to be vulnerable to the whims of a shadowy, authoritarian government.

Cecil stomped in a few minutes later. Carlos emerged from the bedroom, and Cecil caught him in an embrace. Carlos leaned into Cecil's shirt, and wrapped his arms around his husband in return. Cecil buried his face in Carlos' hair. They breathed through each other and into each other, faces arranged against whatever material, through which the warmth of skin was evident.

Then they stepped apart, though not by much. Carlos asked, "How did your phone call go?"

Cecil grimaced, but smoothed his expression with a shake of his head. "They will be here soon. But like you said, it will be fine. A scientist is always fine. Right?"

"Oh, yes," Carlos confirmed, though his tone was neutral.

Cecil cupped Carlos' cheek, and paused, giving the scientist a moment to approve or reject the contact. When he stood still, Cecil gently tipped Carlos' face up, and rested their foreheads together. No cameras could read their lips at that angle.

He whispered, "I am so sorry, Carlos."

Carlos whispered, "Hey, it's okay. I'll be fine."

"Oh. You will." Cecil hissed, "But you should not have to do this at all. You don't need to do this."

"It's not even that strange, right? I mean, the City Council kidnaps people all the time, and that's just about voting. It is probably more unusual that this did not happen sooner. It happens all the time," Carlos rambled, and then understood how Cecil would interpret his words, and regretted them.

"You're right, Carlos. Yes. It  _ does _ happen  _ all the time _ ."

Someone banged on their door. Carlos stepped away, and Cecil caught his hand. Carlos threaded his fingers into his husband's unthinkingly. Cecil's palms were sweating. Now Carlos moved deliberately, just his fingertips against Cecil's knuckles for a stronger hold. 

"Don't go!" Cecil exclaimed, and then pressed a hand to his mouth. But no. No, that was exactly what he had meant to say. "You don't need to go. There is no good reason for this. We'll - we can hide you. Just for a few days, or maybe a week - it'll blow over. I'll make sure it blows over."

Carlos' eyebrows rose, and then he stretched up to give Cecil a quick kiss. "Oh, sweetie. I appreciate the thought, I really do. But that sounds like a terrible idea."

"No, it's… I mean, it'd be okay. If you'll just lie low, I'm sure I can talk them down."

The banging grew from insistent to demanding. 

Carlos bit his lip. "What will happen if I don't go? Where does that leave you?"

"Nowhere that I have not been before."

Carlos lifted an index finger. "The only reason this did not happen sooner is because… there is an influential member of the media who would complain, right? If they are doing this now, then what you have to say must be very important, scientifically speaking. I don't want you to jeopardize that."

"But I don't know if it's worth-" 

Carlos pushed his whole body against Cecil's, and kissed him again. Carlos held Cecil until he judged that, in another second, he might take Cecil up on that offer.

"I love you. Okay, honey? You should…" He gave Cecil a considerate look. "Find something to keep yourself occupied, and we can talk more when I get back. I love you!"

He hurried to the door, and Cecil called after him, "Oh- I love you, too! I love you, Carlos! I-"

The scientist opened the door just enough to slip outside, and shut it firmly behind him.

Cecil finished, "...love you."

He looked around the apartment, now empty. Well. He was still there. For whatever that was worth.

He fiddled with his watchband, toying similarly with Carlos' recommendation in his mind. He should find something to keep himself occupied. He should. Find something. To keep himself occupied. He should. He needed to.

He thought:  _ I should call Josie. Oreos sound nice. And then, maybe we can go bowling, just us, until he's- _

_ Josie is dead. _

_ Right. _

He did nothing. He breathed in, and out. He wiped the back of his hand hand over his eyes, and when he let it fall, he saw the line of cockroaches slowly crawling under the door.

"Ew!" He jumped back, and instinctively ran for the mace they kept in the holiday preparedness kit. Cockroaches were about the only things worse than Valentines. But, when he came back, the cockroaches were gone.

It wasn't that strange. Bugs were often as deceptively fast as they were obviously terrifying. Yet there had been one unhurried, single-file line advancing toward the living room, and more coming in under the door. Now they were nowhere he could see, or they were gone, or. He'd only looked for a second. Maybe they had never been there at all. Again.

"Alright," he told himself. "That's enough."

He wouldn't stay here. He would go. Out. Anywhere.

As he locked the door behind him, he decided to swing by his sister's. She had a dim view of unannounced guests, which he tried to respect, but the drive would be something to do in and of itself. If she told him it wasn't a good time, he would turn around.

* * *

 

The light turned green at the intersection where Main turned off into the Shambling Orphan housing development. He eased forward, and a train rushed out in front of him.

He slammed on the brakes. A chorus of honks and distant cries started up behind him. In the rearview mirror, he saw Coach Nazr al-Mujaheed stuck his tongue out, far more unsettling than any more mature rude gesture. Cecil waved apologetically, and settled in to wait for the train to pass. They must have just started and finished the tracks within the past day or so, because he hadn't heard anything about it.

Something for tomorrow's news. He would need to make sure that others were not caught similarly off-guard.

In front of him, Cecil saw an empty street, and a traffic light turning yellow again. He did not see any train tracks. He had never seen any train tracks, actually. Also, the path of the train would have wiped out a swath of the Shambling Orphan housing development. He glanced over. Nope. It was intact, aside from some wreckage lost to dragonfire a few months ago.

Behind him, he saw a line of fellow drivers, their emotions ranging from irritation to rage over having missed a light for no apparent reason.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and hunched into his seat. When the light changed again, he sped the last few minutes to Abby's house. If he got picked up for driver's reeducation, well. He wouldn't have to worry about what to do anymore, would he?

Abby was taking out the trash when he pulled up. He flipped open the lid, just to make things a little easier on her. She let the bag of intangibles waft down into it, and closed it again. Then she faced him, and raised an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry about not calling first," he began. "I just… Um…"

She examined him openly. "You look sick. Are you feeling okay?"

"Oh, gee, thanks." His heart wasn't really in the sarcasm. "But no. No, I am not."

She motioned at the door. "You'd better come in. Janice will be happy to see you, anyway. But I don't know if you'll be able to stay for dinner. We weren't expecting company, so Steve might not have made enough."

"I wasn't expecting any, and anyway, I wouldn't even want-" He stopped himself with a sharp intake of breath, and finished, "What I mean is: Thank you. That's fine."

She gave him a look, one full of meaning that he could not meet for long, and led him inside.

She called into the house, "Hey, guys! Cecil's just stopping by."

Janice called back from down the hall, "Oh, hi, Uncle Cecil! I'll be out in a sec!"

"Hold on! Have you finished your homework?"

"Almost, Mom!"

"You can come hang out after you're done. We all know you'll get distracted, otherwise."

"Come on, seriously?"

"Yes. If it's almost, it won't take too long, right?"

"Listen to your mother," Cecil added. "I'm stopping by, yes, but I wouldn't leave without saying hi. Don't worry."

Abby mouthed,  _ thank you _ .

Cecil gave her a thumbs-up, and Steve poked his head out of the kitchen. He was grinning. Cecil steeled himself.

"Hi there, Cecil! Oh, just you tonight? Is Carlos working late?"

Cecil was aware of his sister's eyes on him. He crossed his arms, and answered flatly, "No, Steve. He is in reeducation."

Steve stepped into the hall, wiping his hands on the "Kiss" of his "Kiss the cook!" apron. He winced in what they all knew was empathy. "Oh, gee, I'm sorry to hear that. He's a good guy, but, well, I guess science is pretty dangerous."

"Yes. Yes, it is. But a scientist is always fine, so he will be fine. Thank you for your concern."

It was a warning, and Steve failed entirely to notice.

"It's kind of strange, though. Weren't you protecting him? It must have been really serious if the powers-that-be were prepared to trifle with you."

"I am not  _ omnipotent _ , Steve Carlsberg. Sometimes, there is very little I can do. Often, there is nothing," he snapped. More and more. More and more, there was nothing he could do.

"Cecil," said Abby quietly. "I understand that it is stressful, and - if Steve is alright with it - you can stay for dinner. So that you don't have to be alone tonight. It's difficult when a loved one is being reeducated."

There was nothing sharp about her tone. The words alone were enough to make Cecil flinch.

Steve touched her shoulder. "It's okay, honey. It'd be Carlos' first time, so… Well, anyway. Yes, Cecil, we'd be happy to have you for dinner."

Cecil tensed. The play of light over his pearl-white eyes made it obvious that his gaze was flicking between them and the door. He thought about bolting, but now he could only imagine going back home now. The dark house. The empty bed. The line of cockroaches, for some reason - well, because it was disgusting, of course - stuck in his mind. No. Since he could put it off, he would.

"Thank you," Cecil said. "Both of you."

Dinner was pleasant enough to be calming. He got the chance to hear about Janice's day at school; apparently, she had been made captain of the wheelchair basketball team. He squealed, and leaned over the table to high-five her. He cheerfully agreed with Steve's promise to attend all of her games. In fact, he was so excited that he welcomed Steve's follow-up promise to him, to text over the schedule as soon as they had it.

Cecil stood up when they were done, and said, "Here, let me help you clean up."

He gathered everyone's plates, without waiting for an answer.

Abby said, "...Well, okay. I've actually got some work to finish up tonight, so I'll let you get to it." She looked at Cecil as she added, "Behave yourselves. All of you."

"Uh-huh. Good night, Abby." Cecil just continued bringing the plates to the sink. He did not turn around, but his tone warmed as he added, "Thanks, again, for letting me stay."

"Good night, Cecil."

As soon as she was gone, Janice grinned. "So, baking soda bombs, anyone?"

Steve paused in scrapping a serving dish of powdered cinnamon into tupperware. He told her, "Janice, that would not be behaving, and you know it."

Cecil just grinned back. "Sorry, kiddo. I don't know the recipe."

"It was a joke, Dad! I guess that's more of an Uncle Carlos thing, anyway- Oh, sorry."

Cecil grimaced, but he did not intend to let Janice, of all people, know how worried he was. Especially as a gruesome thought uncoiled in his mind:  _ she will be reeducated one day. It happens to everyone. It will happen to her. _

He said, "It's okay, Janice. He'll be back by tomorrow, probably. Maybe, maybe the day after? It was just… a surprise, but it's not like he's- He'll be home soon."

"Yeah, I know." The look she gave him was nothing if not knowing. She was a smart kid.

_ One day _ , he thought. As lovely as dinner had been, it was not settling well in him at all.

Janice finished clearing the table for them, passing the last of the leftovers to Steve for packaging. She gave Cecil a hug before she left. "G'night, Uncle Cecil."

"Good night, Janice. Remember, you're my favorite niece!"

He winked at her. She rolled her eyes, and wheeled away to do teenage things.

Then Cecil was alone with Steve. They stared at each other. Cecil cleared his throat, and suggested, "You wash; I'll dry?"

Steve lifted his eyebrows. His face was practically a transparent thing; his mind was so plain underneath. Not a trace of sarcasm or snark, just surprise. "You really don't want to go home, do you?"

"Well. It's not like there's anything else for me to do." Cecil did not touch Steve, but instead nudged him out of the way by advancing, until Cecil stood in front of the sink instead. "Fine, I'll wash."

He turned on the water, and began scrubbing the dishes with far more force than was required. The grime, at least, was helpless before him. He could do something about this. He set what he was done with on the counter, and Steve picked them up. He dried them, and put them away, and that was it. Just routine and the white noise of the water.

Steve couldn't leave well enough alone, of course.

"You say that a lot, y'know."

" _ Wha _ t do I say a lot, Steve? No, don't answer that. That was reflex. I don't really want to know."

"That you can't do anything. It's just…" Steve grunted as he reached up, and placed a plate in the cabinet. "...Kind of strange, because you do a lot of things. Like, you kept him from being reeducated for this long when it's literally his job to poke at the true nature of things. Give yourself some credit. I'm sure he would want you to be kind to yourself."

Cecil gritted his teeth, and snapped, "I can't say how he feels right now."  _ Although, most likely, he is feeling not much at all. _

Steve agreed, "Okay. I guess I can't, either. But, still, you'll get through this. Both of you."

"I know! I do not need you to tell me!"

"You seem like you need someone to tell you something?"

"Frankly, Steve, I would appreciate silence."

"Oh. Okay…" Though after a moment, he added, "But you know how I know he'll be fine?"

"That is not silence." Cecil said, but he stared up at the ceiling, thinking about what was beyond it. Above the ceiling and the roof of the house. In the sky. Allegedly. "How do you know he'll be fine?"

"He's just not the kind of guy you can intimidate. He cares too much about what he does - about science. About the truth, which I can respect. They can take one piece of forbidden knowledge from him, but they can't take it all. He'll be right back at it tomorrow - I bet it won't work on him any more than it does on you."

Cecil set a dirty dish back in the sink, fearing that he would drop it, otherwise.

"Oh, well! That's just great! Perfect! It would be very reassuring, except that this has  _ nothing _ to do with anything that Carlos learned and _ everything  _ to do with them trying to hurt him to intimidate me-"

He literally clamped his teeth onto his tongue. He hissed, and then finished, "-So just now, I said nothing, so you heard nothing, because there was nothing for you to hear. No words were spoken. It was silent, like I asked for."

"Oh, no! That's terrible! Geez, even for that bunch…" Steve had also stopped his work. "Didn't you try to stop them? Of course you did, I'm sorry."

"Yes! I mean, no. No, as in, I have no idea what you could possibly be talking about."

"Hey, it's okay. Like you said, you're not omnipotent. I know you did everything you could."

_ Yes, and it was still meaningless _ , said words in his head. Not a voice. There was no sound attached to them, although they managed to be scornful. He wanted to scream back, to drown them out with all the volume they lacked, but there was no argument he could make. They were right about him. He was right about himself.

He turned off the water, and braced his hands on the edge of the sink.

"No. No, I don't think I did. I'm sorry, Steve. Thank you for dinner, but I'm afraid you'll have to finish up yourself."

"What?" Steve tried to get a closer look at Cecil's face. He did. He shivered. "Uhh, Cecil, what are you thinking?"

"Oh, just that I have something I need to do, after all. I'll see you later. Good night."

He stalked out of the kitchen, and left the house. When he got into his car, he did not so much relax as deflate. He wished once more that he could have had Josie's advice, but she was dead, and he would never speak to her again.

Well. She would not have been able to do much about this, either. He had to talk to someone else. For the second time that day, he called Sheriff Sam's direct line. It went to voicemail. Naturally. It was far too late for a busy person like the Sheriff to be taking calls.

That was alright. Cecil would take care of this without disturbing them.


	5. Subversion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay alright so obviously that schedule didn't happen, and... honestly, I don't know that I can make promises going forward. Got a new job, trying to learn how to balance what I want to do with what I need to do, etc. 
> 
> But I can and will say this: I've never lost interest in this. Some elements need some work, but on the whole I stand by this concept and I love some scenes coming up (sorry, whoops), so I will do everything I can to push through, work through the gaps and keep things moving.
> 
> Thanks for reading!!

Cecil parked as close to the mine shaft’s entrance as he dared. He tried to call Sam one more time, and when they still did not answer, he stepped into the night.

There were no lights inside of the abandoned mine shaft, a detail one could see from the outside, but it was hard to appreciate darkness until you were in its belly. In spite of the rather comfortable accommodations, the municipal government still didn’t try to advertise the abandoned mineshaft outside of town as a prime getaway destination.

A distinctly human reflex led Cecil to press his hand against the wall, as if to keep himself steady. Prior knowledge and some other sense, uncoiling behind his eyes, kept him on the right path.

He reached the cubicles soon enough. Someone was waiting nearby, a silhouette against the sharp light of a lantern. A guard and a proctor. Their features were hidden by the light, but Cecil felt their gaze shifting onto him.

They called out, “Hey! You’re not supposed to be in here! What-”

Then, they placed him. Even without speaking, Cecil was a well-known figure. Cecil was important. As often as he had been a guest of the facilities, there was no reason for him to be muddying his boots there tonight.

Cecil spoke, both to convey meaning and clear away any doubt that the proctor might have had. There would be no mistaking the Voice of Night Vale. “Where is he?”

“Look, I’m not telling. That’s privileged information.”

“Oh, is that right? So you know who I’m talking about. You have that information.” Cecil did not smile. If he smiled, it might have been playful. If he smiled, there might have been hope. But Cecil was Night Valean, born and raised, and sometimes, he had an interesting idea of mercy. He did not smile. “Well, that’s alright. I do, too.”

The proctor stepped back. Cecil stepped forward, and then repeated the action, again and again, until he stood level with the proctor. Then, until he was past the proctor. A hand grabbed his shoulder, and clamped on. Cecil stopped.

“Are we going to have a problem?” He asked, not even glancing backward, although his heart was twisting in on itself. What was he doing? He was only going to get himself arrested. It would do no good for anyone. But, Carlos. Carlos.

Cecil should have done this sooner, or intervened sooner, so that this did not need to be done at all. He didn’t turn around. He had a gut feeling, now, and extremely good intuition, always. This had to be right.

“I don’t care who you are! You can’t just walk in here and interrupt - it’s a very delicate process. You of all people should know that.”

Cecil let his voice carry. “I know. I know that, and I know where Carlos is, and I know who you are. Now, I strongly recommend you let go of me. You don’t have to. You could arrest me, and I could… join him. But I would, again, simply recommend that you don’t do that.”

The hand dropped. Its owner did not reply.

“Good,” Cecil said. “I’m glad we’ve reached an agreement.”

He marched forward, and gripped the handle of the third door on the right. Muffled sounds came from inside. He didn’t want to think about it. He twisted the handle, instead. It jarred under his palm.

_ Oh. Come on! _

He spun around, to find the proctor hovering right behind him. He shoved out a hand, and demanded, “Keys!”

The proctor started toward the door. “Fine. If it’s that big a deal, I’ll-”

Cecil shifted to hold his hand up, palm out. “No. Give them to me. I’ll do it myself.”

The proctor grumbled something about uncivil disobedience and the law. Cecil didn’t really care. He accepted the keys graciously, and shoved them into the lock. They played a soft, tuneless chord as he opened the door.

Carlos was inside. Of course, he was. Of course, Cecil had known he would be, and Cecil had known that he would look hollow and exhausted. He had known this in advance, and it did not make the reality any easier. He stared, for a moment, unable to move any part of his body beyond swiveling his eyes in the right direction.

“Carlos?” He didn’t quite speak the name, but the thought was too strong, and it snuck a ride under his breath.

It was enough for something. The scientist jolted, and after a moment of searching, his dark eyes found Cecil. Confusion shone in them, especially bright over the circles underneath. His mouth opened, but he didn’t speak. Light from the proctor’s lantern flashed out from behind Cecil, catching on the cold, clammy sweat that streaked Carlos’ skin.

Cecil dropped down onto one knee in front of the chair, and undid the restraints. He leaned in, but he stopped his hand just above Carlos’ face. Touching might not be the best idea right now. If he touched Carlos, if he held his husband, it would be for his own sake.

He said again, deliberately this time, “Carlos? Can you hear me?”

Carlos squeezed his eyes shut, and his mouth pressed into a sour line, but he nodded.

“Do you want to leave? Can you… can you move?”

Carlos shook his head this time.

“Okay. We’ll wait.” Cecil glanced back over his shoulder. “I’m sure we won’t be disturbed.”

He could just make out the curt motion of the proctor nodding. He turned back to Carlos. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

Carlos opened his mouth silently again, but this time, he let out several slow breaths. He doubled over, and curled his fingers, splayed over his knees, into tight fists.

“I’m sorry, Carlos,” Cecil murmured. “I shouldn’t have let this happen. I should have stopped it. I should never have let you come down here.”

Carlos spoke, finally, from under a veil of hair. The words came out slurred and soft. “No… Ceec… it’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Cecil had to strain to understand, but as soon as he pieced the message together, he replied, “It will be. It will be okay, honey. I’m here…”

“You… you. Cecil.” Carlos said, primarily to himself. His head snapped up, and then immediately dropped down into his hands, as dizziness sloshed inside of him. “Cecil. I’m sorry. I… changed my mind. I don’t want to stay here anymore. Can we go?”

“Of course.” Now, Cecil reached forward. He placed one hand just under Carlos’ arm, and rested the other against his waist, for balance. Carlos forced himself upwards and staggered, but Cecil pulled him the rest of the way, and caught the scientist against his own body.

To this, Carlos responded immediately. He fitted his arms around Cecil and squeezed weakly, but didn’t let go. Cecil held him, adjusting one arm around the scientist’s back, and tangling his fingers into the scientist’s damp hair. Neither of them said anything.

The proctor stepped away, presumably returning to their post, and left them in the silent dark. Carlos shivered, although if anything he felt too warm, and buried his face into Cecil’s neck. Cecil began to hum an aimless song in his strong voice, until Carlos shifted again. Cecil whispered, “Are you ready?”

“Yes. Please. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Cecil said. A stock phrase, and not one he would normally have relied, but he couldn’t even think far enough ahead to make it future tense. They left the room unimpeded, and Carlos continued to lean heavily on him as they made their way down the hall.

“It’s okay…” Carlos repeated, yet again. “Nothing…” He swallowed. “There’s nothing wrong. It’s what it should be. It’s…”

Cecil slid his gaze over to the scientist, who was staring at the floor. Nothing was wrong, physically, but there was a disconnect, like Carlos’ body wasn’t quite picking up on the commands to stand up straight and keep walking, like his nerves were so much frayed cable.

The radio host listened, and he said, “Don’t say that right now, Carlos. Don’t think about what should or shouldn’t be. Now is not a good time for that.”

“But it should… it should…?”

“Shh. In a little while, we’ll think about it together, okay? We’ll think about it… scientifically. But not right now.”

They approached the exit, and found a line of people waiting for them there. Behind them was the moon, watching, or not. Maybe it was tonight, just to see this terrible drama unfold. Sheriff Sam stood in front of the line.

“Sessil! You know exactly how many rules you’re violating, so that’s not the question. The question is, do you know how hypocritical you’re being?”

“Yes. Extremely. But don’t worry, there will be a fascinating news report tomorrow,” Cecil answered, deadpan, as Carlos wrapped his fingers into the fabric of Cecil’s shirt.

“Cecil? Cecil, can we go? I… I’m okay, fine, but… I want to lie down…” He didn’t seem to notice the people in front of them.

“We should take both of you back right now.” Sam spoke like a parent warning a child, but Cecil was not about to let the dynamic shift that easily.

“I already had this conversation, but okay. Let’s talk.” Cecil stepped forward, doing his best to make sure Carlos stayed close. “You should. It’s the law, after all. But. But you won’t. What would be the point? I know the law. I know all about it. In fact, I probably know more than just about anyone but you, when it comes to legal affairs in Night Vale. You can reeducate me, and I will still have my show to do. I will still report what I am supposed to report. You’ll find the law has very little to do with that,  _ dear listeners _ .”

He knew the law in Night Vale. He knew the written legal code, and the law, and he knew that both were interpreted selectively, at best.

There was silence. He would let it linger for as long as they wished.

“You’re just lucky the mayor likes you,” said Sam, not hiding their scorn. They motioned over their shoulder, scattering their followers.

Cecil did not exhale, or inhale, for that matter. He kept his lungs carefully still as he led Carlos to the car. The scientist slid into his seat and reached for the belt with shaking hands. Cecil leaned forward, and asked, “Do you need help?”

He asked this, still without breathing. Or so it felt like, anyway.

“No… no. I can do this… please, just…” Carlos motioned vaguely toward the steering wheel. “I am not… Operating heavy machinery, like a vehicle, would be very bad right now, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

Cecil brushed the scientist’s hair from his face gently. “Shh. Don’t think about shoulds and shouldn’ts. Don’t think about what’s right.”

Carlos nodded, slack-jawed. Cecil crossed to the driver’s seat, and slammed the door after him. Only then did he release a massive sigh. His hands shook on the wheel, but soon enough, he was leaving a trail of dust behind them.

Along the way, Carlos kept murmuring and muttering, and Cecil offered what reassurances he could. What not to think about, that was easy. That was the whole point of the process. The problem was what to think about. The problem was holding onto yourself.

Here, again, Cecil had an advantage that Carlos did not. An advantage no one else in town had, that not even Josie had possessed, on top of experience; a lifetime of education and reeducation. Cecil’s self extended a little farther than the inside of his skull. He always had something to come back to. So maybe this was why he felt so sick, watching his husband shake, hearing his breath catch.

It wasn’t that Cecil forgotten how difficult this would be. It was that he’d never really known.

At home, they lay down together and folded in on each other. Carlos curled half-inward on himself, his lab coat crumpled against the bed, and Cecil settled around him, pressing against the scientist’s back and lining his arm up against Carlos’ until they could twine their fingers together.

“Cecil. Cecil, I…”

“Hold on. Carlos. I need you to listen to me. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Good. I’m sorry about what just happened. I’m so sorry, but-” He squeezed his fingertips against Carlos’ palm. “But right now, that’s not going to help. I want you to focus on my voice, okay?”

Silence.

“Carlos? Did you hear me?”

“Oh. Sorry, I was… thinking… but it wasn’t about science…”

“Just listen. Just breathe. Can you do that? For me?”

“Okay, Cecil.”

He waited until Carlos’ breath found its own, even pace, a gentle rise and fall that almost lulled Cecil himself to sleep. It was just about the only thing that really help him sleep, in fact, but now wasn’t the time. He levered himself upright and shifted his weight onto his elbow, where he could lean close to Carlos’ ear.

He began to speak, softly, richly, so that one word slipped into the next regardless of consonant-barriers. “Dear Carlos, I am here to remind you of quiet spaces, gentle hours; time that is soft like satin or the idea of a cat's fur. Time like the present. I am here to remind you of the fact that light will fade and the world will spin on, no matter what you do. You are safe, in this moment.”

This was not a moment for existentialism, for discussing the inherent danger of existence. Sometimes, human beings needed just to be safe. There are many ways to achieve this, but Cecil had learned in other times and places, under the weight of other stressors, that soft words in a certain voice had become among Carlos’ favorites.

“No one is going to do anything to you, nothing you do not wish to be done. We are alone, but I am here. You can be certain of it. You can know this, as you know that science is important, and that the day is too long here, and that we are in love. I know, and you know, that very little is certain, but these things are, and so is the fact that we are together and you are real. Remember that you are yourself, inquisitive, brave, caring… My Carlos. And your own Carlos. Listen, and remember…”

He tilted forward, and brushed strands of that beautiful hair away to look at that beautiful face. A shadowed eye swiveled in his direction. Then, there was an intake of breath, a gathering, potential energy becoming kinetic as Carlos twisted onto his other side in one motion, and buried his face against Cecil’s chest.

Carlos said, “Oh. That sounds… nice. What else? What else is there?”

He had no frame of reference. When he tried to place himself, his head throbbed over the thought. But wherever he was, Cecil was there, talking about something. Talking about him, Carlos thought. He didn't mind that. That, he didn't mind.

Cecil kept talking, telling him what else there was. Carlos heard, but could not listen. He almost drifted off to sleep a few times. Each time, something stirred inside of him, and his heart started up as if to warn him of coming danger. His whole body twinged, the mechanisms overtuned. Something was wrong. What was wrong?

"Ceec? Ceec?" He ventured. His voice still slurred slightly, now as much from exhaustion as much as anything. "Cecil, what's going on? I don't… remember..."

Cecil stopped, drawing back enough to look down at his husband, and bit his lip. "Nothing is going on right now. Not right now. It's just us."

"No. No, it is never… They, they can see, right? They - oh." Carlos was already buried in his husband, but he shifted as if he could be closer. As if he could hide there, or anywhere.

“Oh. Oh, dear,” Cecil said this mostly for his own benefit. “Don't worry about that, honey. It is not something you need to worry about.”

“But Cecil…”

“Carlos, listen.” Cecil hesitated. In reassuring Carlos about this, Cecil would still encourage his husband to think about it. It was not a safe line of thinking. 

True, be hadn’t known how to go about handling this, but he’d thought - maybe, maybe it would work itself out. Carlos was smart, and strong, so maybe it didn’t matter that the process was literally tailored to deal with that kind of person. To make them listen, to make them stop.

He did not know what he could do. Probably, he could do nothing. More and more, he could do nothing. But right now, he could not just let  _ them _ do as they willed, as he often did. He would not let  _ them _ do this to Carlos. He would not allow them to  _ take _ the way they did, not from his husband. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He had to do something – what he could. 

He said, “No. It’s my turn to listen. Tell me about your project? Um. Let's see. The one about the shoes?”

“Um? Science? Is that a science question?”

The radio host’s eyes narrowed. He pressed, “The shoes, Carlos. The ones you were telling me about - you remember, right? It’s important that you remember?” He swallowed, and added, “Yes. It is a science question.”

Carlos closed his eyes, and thought about shoes. It made his head hurt. Maybe someone had hit him in the head with a shoe. That was a reasonable conclusion, at this point. But there was something else.

There was a space. Very clean, very white. Professionalism. In theory. That was the idea of the space. The reality of the space was papers, stacked neatly or attached to clipboards, but everywhere. Tables with boxes of equipment and sealed samples. Old fluorescent lighting that made it all look yellowed, like the light was time. Maybe light was time.

That was a new hypothesis. If light makes things yellow, faded, then light was the same as time. His head hurt. He made a sound into Cecil’s chest. It might have been a word. He might have meant it to be a word, like “what?” But it came out as “whhggf” or something similar.

Either way, Cecil said again, “Shoes, Carlos.”

Right. Shoes. The space - his lab. He remembered, his head pounded. Memory and pain had a cyclical relationship. He remembered: the experiments, his experiments. His head - he pressed a hand to it, and hissed through his teeth. But Cecil had asked him about, what he'd been doing lately, Cecil, Cecil, about  _ what _ -

"Huntokar?" Carlos suggested. That sounded right. It was a very strange name, or word. Maybe it was a place. He did not remember, and Cecil shook his head, anyway.

"No! Mmm. No, Carlos. You had an experiment about shoes? From the Goodwill, right?" Cecil pressed.

"Oh. Oh, right… I think…"

In his lab, a box of shoes that had appeared in the local Goodwill. The prevailing theory was a donation from the hooded figures, who had given up on the societal impetus to wear shoes because no one could see their feet anyway, and they liked feeling the sand between their toes. All this started with the assumption that some of them had feet, or bodies.

Either way, the shoes had been doing something, which was interesting, because normally shoes were only worn.

“Shoes… um. Walking. On their own? Except. Also.” Carlos swallowed. “Also, the laces were worms. And we couldn’t tell… if they’d always been worms? But when we tried to touch the worms, they were laces again, and we had to consider that… that our reality and perception were all totally wrong, and how did we know that worms and shoelaces were different, anyway, maybe we tie our shoes with worms all the time… oh.”

“Oh?”

“Nothing. I should get back to the lab, though. I think. I don't know.”

“Tomorrow,” Cecil told him. “For now… let me get you something to eat, okay?”

He kissed Carlos on his temple, so tenderly that he hardly touched the scientist, and rolled away. Before he got far, however, Carlos grabbed a handful of his shirt again.

“Yes, dear?” Cecil peered back over his shoulder anxiously.

“I know… I love you. I know that. Okay?”

That Cecil’s heart did not stop was an act of benevolence on its part. He replied, “I love you, too, Carlos.”

Then, Cecil slipped from the bed. When he came back, he brought a mug of soup, with a spoon tucked against his palm for the vegetables. He put it down on the nightstand, careful to not make any jarring noises. He spoke.

"Hey?"

Carlos did not respond. Cecil pressed carefully, "Carlos? Can you hear me?"

"Yes. I can hear you." Carlos sat up. He was hollow and exhausted, but he couldn't remember the experiences that had scraped him out and drained him so completely. He felt sick, but without the material experience of sickness. Except his head. His head hurt, but that had a beat like a fresh bruise, not sickness. He opened his eyes, and saw Cecil. The worry on his face matched Carlos' self-assessment.

"Cecil?" He asked, but that wasn't really the question. He tried again, "What happened?"

"You were reeducated, Carlos. I'm sorry." Cecil put an arm around him.

Carlos leaned into the embrace. He whispered, "Oh." And then, after a moment, "Ouch."

Cecil handed Carlos the mug. He would have to tell Carlos the whole story. He would tell Carlos tomorrow. Already, the words were sticking in Cecil's throat, but it was better that Carlos hear it from him, correctly. He just, he didn't want to burden his poor husband with that right away.

It was late. There was soup. They could talk about it in the morning.


	6. Overreach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for bugs this time around. I will say, however, that this may be the last time I mention that, because from this point on, bugs will feature in most, if not literally every, chapter, so it's a warning for the fic overall.

Cecil was awake first. Carlos came into the kitchen to find his husband presiding over a small array of vegan egg- and bacon-substitutes.

Cecil greeted him differently. Perhaps not with more enthusiasm than usual, but with a peculiar depth to that enthusiasm. He spoke quietly, "Good morning, dear Carlos! How are you feeling? Are you sure you should be walking around?"

"Mhmmm," Carlos said. He ambled up to the counter, and kissed Cecil on the cheek. "This is what I am feeling right now, beyond the typical range of sensory experience and physical sensation: moderate headache. Somewhat dizzy underneath that. Um. A little nauseous...” He bit his lip, and lifted a hand to the back of his head, feeling under his hair. “It is not, like, super comfortable, but I should be alright."

Carlos' other hand rested on the countertop. Cecil placed his free hand on top of Carlos', slipping his thumb under the palm. He felt his husband's weight there. He felt Carlos' reliance on his hand, and the counter under it. Cecil squeezed his thumbtip into Carlos' palm.

"Are you sure you don't need to sit down? Do you want something else to eat?”

Cecil turned, abandoning breakfast in favor of pressing a hand to Carlos' cheek. His touch shifted unthinkingly, to the spot Carlos had brushed before. There was a lump under his hair, taut and too-warm. Carlos winced, and tapped Cecil's elbow away.

Cecil dropped his hand, and gasped, “Oh, bunny! I'll get you – anything. You should sit. Or, maybe you should stay home from work today?”

“No. I really would not like to do that. I do feel a little... uneasy? Unsteady. Oh, it is tricky to describe scientifically. But I think I need some consistency,” Carlos answered, but he did go to sit down. “Also, please do not try to feed me anything else. That smells really good.”

Cecil laughed, though he couldn't sustain it. “Okay. I won't try to feed you anything else.”

He pulled some bacon-substitute early, and plated it for Carlos, who liked his a little underdone, in Cecil's opinion, and a little less crisp than char, by Carlos' own metric.

He set the plate on the table, and lingered there, gripping the spatula in both hands. The flat edge rested just under his chin.

Carlos asked, “What is it?”

“Umm. Well. Do you remember what happened last night?”

"No. If you hadn't told me, I don't think that I would know that anything happened last night at all. I just feel slightly sick, which there could be a multitude of reasons for.

“That is not a complaint or a compliment. It's a statement of fact, and also of surprise. I expected it would feel different, somehow. Do you know if that's intentional? Maybe it is different, but I would never know to question it, if I did not already know, because I don't feel it. It would be impractical to repeatedly and regularly disrupt your population's ability to function...."

Cecil's face fell. "Oh, don't tell me you're getting interested in the process. I can't stop you from  _ being _ interested, but… don't tell me about it. Anyway. No. Well, sometimes. It depends on the nature of the knowledge or crime. But, ah, about that..."

Cecil closed his eyes. He had wanted to tell Carlos, because surely the scientist would find out when it came crashing down, but it was the telling threw the deed into inescapable relief.

"Oh, masters of us all. I, um, I may have broken you out early? There will probably be consequences, but. But this time, I will make sure that  _ I  _ am the one who answers for what I have done."

"...What exactly did you do, Cecil?"

"What did I do?" He almost snarled, but caught himself at the last moment. He did not want to startle his husband, or worsen his headache, and so he restrained himself to a dire proclamation. "I broke the law, Carlos. I acknowledged the… I acknowledged Erika. No. The angels. I persisted in this behavior, and I obviously intend to continue!" He raised his voice for the benefit of the microphones in their home. "And they punished you for it. To punish me."

Carlos clarified quietly, "I know. We knew that already, Cecil. I'm not upset with you, but I am worried about you. Also, I meant last night. What did you do last night."

"Like I said. I broke you out. I couldn't just let them do that to you. And I couldn't let them punish you for what I have done. It is not your responsibility."

"No. It's not. But you didn't make that choice, either. You did what you thought was right, and they chose…" Carlos selected his conclusion carefully. "How to respond to you doing that."

"I'm not going to stop," Cecil admitted. "I can't. The angels need legal recognition, or everything Josie worked for… No. I won't let her life's work vanish like that. I won't abandon her legacy." He added softly, "You need to know that, Carlos."

Carlos put a hand on his husband's arm. "You don't want me to get hurt. I don't want you to get hurt, either, but I wasn't going to ask you to stop."

"I… had a feeling, but I wanted to be clear. It's just that... You know what? Maybe I would stop, if I thought that it would make a difference. If I thought it would keep you safe." He turned, and ran his fingers through his husband's perfect hair. Lightly, barely at all, as if he was scared it had grown fragile, and not at all over the back. "But now that they have crossed this line, there is no guarantee that they will not cross it again. And I have shown them…"

"That you won't just let them do whatever they want?"

"Yes. Yes, exactly that." 

Carlos sat straight up, and peered past Cecil. "Oh! Oh, honey, the eggs!"

"What- Oh, right!" 

Cecil crossed the kitchen in a few steps, already reaching for the stove dial. He silently salvaged breakfast, and brought the remaining plates to the table. 

Carlos allowed him to finish the preparations, regarding the food in his own, contemplative silence. Cecil had moved on to sorting out the coffee. Carlos fidgeted with his fork, until Cecil set a mug in front of him, the liquid inside already pale with sugar and milk. He looked up at his husband, and asked, "So. What are you going to do?" 

Cecil set down his own mug. He sat down. He immediately reclaimed the mug, and took a careful sip. Then, he smiled nervously. "Hmm. What I can. How's that?"

"A very reasonable conclusion, from a scientific perspective," Carlos replied, with a fond smile of his own.

* * *

The status quo was a powerful force, but not immutable. Civic change was possible.

_ "Listen, angels are real. You can deny it as many times as you want, but it's true. _

_ "We've all seen them at gas stations and supermarkets, trying to bum ten dollars and rides off of busy citizens. I know it can get irritating, but your money goes directly toward funding the arts right here in Night Vale! And they have promised that, if legally recognized as real beings, they will make these donations tax-deductible. _

_ "Ask yourselves: why was the existence of angels illegal to acknowledge in the first place? Could it be that the government fears them? Why does our government fear these beings made of pure, benevolent divinity? _

_ "I don't know. I don't know that they do. It's just the first possibility I came up with. But think about it. Think about the existence of angels, and know that they are real. _

_ "The powers-that-be don't want you to know this. They so badly want to keep it from you that they are willing to hurt  _ innocent people _ in their attempts to keep it secret. That is why we  _ must _ know it. We must disarm this knowledge. By acknowledging the existence of angels, we can keep our citizens - our precious, fellow citizens - safe. _

_ "We- What's that? Oh. Oh, Gustav has just informed me that this entire segment has been censored." _

Cecil tapped his useless microphone, and smiled to himself. "Oh, well. Talking into the void again, I see."

Gustav was still gesturing frantically. Cecil tilted his head, and mouthed,  _ What? _

Then someone knocked on his studio door, and he realized that Gustav had been gesturing beyond it, into the hallway. Cecil had a guest.

Two guests. One of them was not tall, and the other one was not short. They waited for him in the hallway. He closed the studio door firmly behind him.

"And what can I do for you gentlemen this evening?"

"Hello, Mr. Palmer. We have important business to discuss," the man who was not tall began.

"You've really made a mess," the man who was not short finished.

"I can't see how."

"Now is not the time to be coy, Mr. Palmer. You have broken the law."

He looked them over, his mouth now a sharp line, though it was difficult to read any expression in his uncanny eyes. "I am not being coy. Frankly, I am offended at the suggestion. Someone must speak up for the good of the town, and that is what I have been doing. The angels have been, are, and will continue to be good for the community. Whether the powers that be like it or not."

"You've said that before…" The man who was not short did not look impressed.

The man who was not tall nodded as he, too, remembered. "Arguably, what you did at that time was worse. But we let it slide. Time after time, we have looked the other way regarding your actions. We are not here for one incident, Mr. Palmer, but because of a pattern of behavior that has become frankly alarming."

"I am doing my job. It is my duty as a journalist to report the truth, after all," Cecil replied.

"Your first duty is not your job. It is to this town. But I can see that you no longer appreciate that," the man who was not tall snapped.

Cecil scoffed, but the man who was not tall held up a hand. The man who was not short merely sighed, but he had an almost smug smile just touching his lips, an expression that said  _ you've done it, now _ more clearly than words. Cecil felt the carpet under his feet unraveling, felt a pit opening in the floor beneath it, a bottomless void in front of his studio. A wave of vertigo, regret for something that had not yet happened.

"The acknowledgement of angels, which are not real, and their equally fictional hierarchy, is not the only problem. Where were you last night in the hours surrounding midnight?"

"You know. I did not hide it." Cecil wished he could have, now. There had been no time. Maybe for Cecil himself, but Carlos had not had any time for Cecil to spend on concocting some wily scheme.

"So you admit it. You are responsible for trespassing in the abandoned mine shaft, and aiding in the escape of a political prisoner."

"I did not admit to anything, but I also will not hide anything," Cecil said tersely. He should not have added, "That political prisoner was my husband, who had not, in fact, done anything."

"The law applies to you, and to your husband, whether  _ you _ like it or not. His own meddling in the past has not gone unnoticed."

"Well. Well, then…" Cecil tried, but he had no argument for that.

They had, after all, spoken of forbidden things. Both of them. The law was not just, the words stuck in his throat. The law should change, he thought, and yet the thought was hollow. That law was everything he had known. It had always kept him safe, and the people he cared about. Certainly, he could not have protected them otherwise.

The world was fragile and dense with things that wanted to hurt you. Do not speak of them. Do not let them in.

"Enough. I can see that you can't appreciate our perspective,  _ or _ your duty to this community," the man who was not tall declared. " _ Welcome to Night Vale _ is canceled until further notice. You may - or may not - resume your duties pending an investigation."

_ "What?" _

"I won't repeat myself." The man who was not tall said.

"You- you can't do that. You don't have the authority!" Now, Cecil shouted, accompanied by an accusatory finger in the man's chest.

The man who was not tall batted it away impassively. "No. But our superiors do. We are just the messengers."

"No. No, this town needs me. They have to know that - they can't just… they  _ don't _ have the authority. People need to know what they can, and cannot, know!"

The man who was not short snorted, "From you? You've been having some trouble keeping your facts straight lately, as it is."

The man who was not tall agreed, "That's right. If nothing else, how do we know we can rely on you? How can any of us?"

And Cecil was silent.

"Take this time to get some rest, Mr. Palmer. It sounds like you need it."

Cecil did not watch them leave. He did not bother to clear out his desk, or collect his mug from the breakroom. He did not even stop to pet Khoshekh one last time on the way out. He did not say goodbye to the sales tarantulas, or thank Station Management for never devouring his soul over their years together. Cecil stalked past Lance, and refused to look at him. He could not imagine that everyone didn't know. He could imagine their expressions well enough to be sick without even seeing them.

He stepped out of the station, and into a train car.

It was a subway, this time. Utilitarian, plastic seats with chipping paint. Metal railings and plastic handles, for when the ridership inevitably exceeded what the seats could hold. He turned around as the doors slid shut behind him.

"This isn't real," he said aloud. As if it were a spell to cast, he repeated, "This isn't real."

The train was not moving. He could see the station doors behind him, and he tried to work his hands into the train doors' seal.

"Relax," said a voice behind him, from the closed train car that had been empty before he turned around. The voice was smooth, even warm, but it had not offered reassurance. It had given a command.

He continued working on the door. His numbness was giving way, and underneath it, his heart threatened to crack his ribs and his breath spiraled out of control. The door would not open. It would not open. He pounded a fist on the glass, and called out, "Hey! Hello! Can anyone hear me? Come on! Come on, how do you, how do you not notice a train in front of the radio station? Help!"

Lance poked his head through the door. His expression shifted from faint confusion to slack-jawed shock, as he processed a train in front of this wrong kind of station. Then Lance saw Cecil, and he moved to help get the door open.

"Relax, Voice. You are where you should be. There is no need to struggle."

Sweat dripped down the back of his neck. Voice - they were talking about him, except that he was no longer the voice of anything, and something about the way they said it left him with a sensation like static up his spine.

Lance was still scrabbling uselessly at the rubber seal. The door would not open. The window would not break. No one could free him.

"You have served their interests, but no longer. You are capable of so much more - and I will see you fulfill your potential."

He turned around. There was a woman with the head of a deer standing in the center of the car. Only the hems of her flowing robe were visible underneath a writhing layer of cockroaches. They spread from her over the floor, a seemingly endless mass. They spread toward him as she spoke. Bile slid up the back of his throat.

"Come here."

His back pressed up against the door. He cried out, "No!"

He fell back. His head hit the radio station's door. His ears rang as he stared up into the sunset. He gasped, and covered his mouth, swallowing to suppress his gag reflex. Lance stood by watching him, looking merely confused again.

"Cecil? You alright?"

"I… I don't know. What just happened?"

"Uhh, I don't know, either? Nothing?"

"What do you mean, nothing? What happened to the train?"

"What train?"

"The… the train. The one that appeared in front of the radio station? The doors closed on me, and you were just trying to help me get off? That train."

"There… wasn't a train, Cecil. I don't think I would have missed that." Lance patted his shoulder. With the kind of careful friendliness that meant he didn't trust how Cecil would respond, he said, "You should go home, I think. Get some rest. Take it easy for a while."

"I don't see how you would have missed it, either…" Cecil muttered. "Right. You know what? It's fine. I'll be fine. You go on back. Have a good evening."

He got in his car, but he did not drive. He was still trembling, still alive with adrenaline and now dizzy with it, absent any obvious danger. He rested his head on the steering wheel, and tried to compose himself. Probably, it was nothing. He was just stressed. Grief was stressful. Fighting an authoritarian government with words alone was stressful. Losing that fight, and his job with it? Yup. Stressful. So it wasn't nothing, alright. But it was stress, and only that. He missed the numbness that had carried him thoughtlessly out of the station.

As soon as he decided he would be safe behind the wheel, he drove to Carlos' lab. The scientist was a radiant sun in the center, which all the other scientists orbited around, seeking opinions and advice and critique. Although at that moment, only he and Nilanjana stood together, whispering over a clipboard that Carlos was holding. They looked up when Cecil came in. Carlos saw Cecil's face, and passed the clipboard to Nilanjana.

Most of the scientists were too involved with their experiments to notice him right away, though a few glanced up as he passed without bothering to hide their curiosity. They were scientists, after all. Cecil's skin prickled under their gazes, just the same. Carlos met him halfway, hooked his arm in Cecil's, and escorted him to his office.

"Cecil, sit down, please. You look like you're going to pass out. What happened?"

Cecil braced himself on the desk, instead. He looked like he felt, apparently. Although he had come here to talk about it - or, not to talk about it, not to linger on it, but just to say it - he found that the subject was too great to voice. It stayed caught under his collarbone, a lump at the base of his throat.

He managed, "No, I don't want to sit. I don't know when I'd get back up, I just... Will you hold me?"

"Yes. Come here," said Carlos, although he closed the distance between them first, and wrapped his arms around his husband.

Cecil dropped his head onto Carlos' shoulder, and held him back, tightly. There, in that moment of safety, Cecil announced into his husband's neck, "They fired me, Carlos. They canceled my show."

" _ What? _ "

"That's what I said." Cecil's eyes stung, but he laughed. All that had been too great to speak was shredded into that sound. Ugly and torn-up.

Carlos protested, "But that makes no sense! Oh, Ceec..."

"Oh? Why not? After all, I have revealed classified information, and broken the law. They were... completely in the right to censor me." Cecil intoned. His panic was fading. Now, he could approach the subject rationally.

"Okay, but from a practical standpoint, I don't know what they expect people to do. I'm not sure if the local TV news anchors ever give individual citizens the same report. And if you read the  _ Daily Journal _ , an article on one subject will have completely different information from one day to the next, and also, it is imagined. And I was…" Carlos lowered his voice, "I was looking at a news blog the other day, and it was completely blacked out. Do they just not want people to know  _ anything _ ?"

"Maybe we should not. Maybe it will be better that way."

"Don't be ridiculous, Cecil," Carlos said, but gently. He tipped Cecil's chin up. Looking into Cecil's eyes, Carlos sometimes felt his gaze slid off, or through. He looked, anyway. "I know you don't feel that way, and I don't think it will help to pretend that you do."

"Well. Well, whatever happens will happen whether I report on it or not, right? So it won't really change much around here. And maybe it will be better for the community, to not have to hear so much about all these natural disasters and government created disasters, and…" Cecil started out brooding, and trailed off, increasingly frantic.

"Not all news can be good news. Once again, I am telling you something you know, but listen. What you do is important, because it keeps people connected to their community. It keeps everyone in the loop, to explain it in scientific terms."

"Maybe I did that. But now…" Cecil shook his head free. Carlos' eyes were beautiful like every part of him was, and terribly observant, and sometimes they seemed to highlight Cecil's every imperfection. Still, he pressed his face right back into the scientist's shoulder. "I do nothing. I mean, I'll do something. I've got hobbies! Right? It will be fine."

Carlos kissed his husband's head, and said kindly, "Yes, Cecil, it will be fine. But it's okay if it's not, for a little while. That's okay, too."

Cecil stiffened against Carlos, who continued kissing him. Cecil closed his eyes, and admitted in a whisper, "I don't understand it, Carlos. All I wanted was to do right by Josie. I just… wanted to do  _ something _ this time."

"I know. I know, babe. And I'm sorry it turned out this way, but… I am proud of you for trying. That's one of the many things I love you for, okay?"

"Carlos…" Cecil choked out. Then, shuddering gasps, becoming sobs, finally becoming silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it seems like what happened to Carlos is being glanced over: Don't worry. He'll get a lot more time to breathe, narratively. This is very important to me. 
> 
> Just, well. There were always going to be consequences.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so if you're wondering why City Council/Station Management matters to this? Because I sure didn't remember. I started writing it just thinking about that more melodramatic take on year 5, exploring some themes I'm interested in. But I did this thing where I stopped listening, initially, after the point I wanted to pick up from - literally right after the end of 104. 
> 
> When I checked 105, though (after which a whole first draft was done, oops), I discovered that the reason Cecil was not reeducated for talking about angels was because he was able to distract the City Council by talking about Station Management.
> 
> So, uh, I retooled things a bit to run with that. Now, he's dealing with some additional pressure from all sides, and, well. Things will be different.


End file.
